Armistice
by ruth baulding
Summary: An insidious threat to every clone trooper in the Republic's Grand Army drags the boys into a new and perilous adventure. Featuring characters and situations from Karen Miller's and Karen Traviss' Clone Wars novels. Published in short scenes.
1. Chapter 1

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 1**

Resplendent in sequined verisilk, crowned in a hand-wrought Chandrilan filigree headdress, mahogany locks curled and set and arranged to perfection by the artifice of her devoted handmaidens, Nubian Senator Padme Amidala did the only thing she could possibly be expected to do in this venue: sit and be beautiful, a rival to any guest and even the genetically enhanced performers upon the stage of Coruscant's fabulous – and increasingly decadent – Royal Firebird Opera House.

She left the _spying_ to her demure companions, quietly ensconced in the second row, discreetly veiled from the eyes of any prurient observers by their own obscuring garb and the shadowed overhang of the box overhead. Sabe, sweet loyal Sabe, had the role of voyeur this evening; her opera glasses were trained upon the Supreme Chancellor's private reserved box across the soaring hall's wide expanse.

"He's there, Milady," came the murmured intelligence report, breathed in soft tones just behind Padme's left ear. She nodded, cautiously, aware of the precise gravitational alignment of her teetering head ornaments. _He, _of course, meant Bail Organa, present head of the Republic Security Committee and a man blessed with Palpatine's confidence and seeming favor. In a time when intrusive security measures made any conventional form of covert communication impossible, Bail had –with ironic aplomb- designed an elaborate system of code, one immune from the prying attentions of audio-enhancers, holo-interception, and quotidian deciphering programs.

They spoke in clothes.

"What's he wearing?"

Sabe peered assiduously at the Alderaanian royal consort, taking in every detail. "Indigo velveteen jacket, slim cut. No lapels, no epaulettes. White ruff, starched, no jewelry. No, right hand signet ring, that's all. Dark trousers, high cut boots, no buckles.

"Cloak?"

"Over his arm, Milady."

Padme risked another infinitesimal nod. New trouble brewing – something the public , and probably not even the legislature, would be informed of. "Thank you, Sabe. I am sure he cuts a dashing figure." Should this box be under surveillance, as it most assuredly was, her remarks would seem the harmless chatter of females concerned with fashion and the allurements of Society's highly placed males. Padme had found it expedient of late to encourage the gossip mongers' tale that she and the handsome Alderaanian Prince were engaged in a scandalous affair of the heart; it provided excuse for their clandestine meetings at each other's home, and a smokescreen for her real secret marriage.

"Oh my," Sabe tittered.

Padme kept he gaze politely riveted upon the stage, offering up a smattering of applause when protocol demanded it. "Someone else now?" she demanded of her retainer.

"General Kenobi, Milady." Sabe had been an enthusiastic connoisseur of the General's charms since they had first met – ever so fleetingly- aboard the Nubian Royal yacht well over a decade ago. Then, Padme and her bodyguards had been all of them girls – Sabe more experienced than the rest, but still a mere child by comparison to the Jedi sent to rescue them from imprisonment or worse. It was an inevitability that at least one of them should be utterly smitten by the heady cocktail of physical grace, velvety voice, alluring dimples, and impossible masculine self confidence that had swaggered its way into their lives on that fateful day. Sabe had never _quite_ recovered, and the Jedi padawan in question had not helped matters by ripening like a prize vintage – mellowing into something far more potent and subtle than the original, a fermentation of youthful blandishments into absolutely intoxicating maturity.

That's how Sabe saw it, anyway; her former Queen's thoughts were on a different, if related, plane. "Is… General Skywalker with him?"

"No, Milady, I'm sorry."

Padme heaved a forlorn sigh. Obi-Wan's presence had sparked a wild flare of hope – surely Anakin could not be far behind? Where _was_ he? They had agreed not to communicate by any means but courier, due to the same restrictive surveillance techniques that cramped every other venue of private life here in the war-weary Core. He could be parsecs away, or waiting for her at her apartment.. tonight… after the show… She glanced down at the programme in her lap, wondering precisely how long after intermission she might be obliged to delay before calling for her private chauffeur…

"Milady?"

"I'm fine. A little hot in here" She fanned herself, coquettishly, smiling sweetly at the simpering Pelugrian attaché in the balcony adjacent, who was openly ogling her with all four blood-shot eyes.

"Mmm," Sabe appreciatively murmured, opera glasses still trained unfailingly on the Chancellior box opposite. "Master Yoda is there too. I can just see his ears peeking up over the rail. They should bring him a booster-seat."

"Sabe!"

They were all too well-trained to giggle aloud, in public. Padme could hear the rustle of chiffon behind her as her companions suppressed their mirth. She smoothed the front of her own gown, cursing the form-hugging bodice that guaranteed her ramrod posture and displayed her enviable figure to best effect. A little more _wriggle_ room would be welcome when one's mental state vascillated so readily between hysteria and dread. She wrenched her mind back to _duty _ instead_. _"What are they doing?"

"They appear to be offering formal congratulations… to Master Kenobi. He's _scowling." _ A pregnant pause, followed by a reverent utterance beneath Sabe's breath. "Oh _my._."

Not a _happy_ occasion then. Perhaps another campaign victory that had cost lives. Padme knew Obi-Wan well – far better than he suspected. Anakin told her _everything, _ and what he did not tell her she read in her husband's eyes and in the spaces between his words. The Negotiator, at this point in the endless war, was sick to death of honoraria bestowed upon him for what he perceived as _slaughter_. Whether his own troops died, or civilians, or Separatist mercenaries, the affair was equally repulsive, the accolades heaped upon him like vicious brands of shame.

But, a small voice reasoned with her, _he hasn't been off-world since Lanteeb. _ She shrugged away the difficulty. It was likely enough unrelated to the matter at hand.

"They're sitting down now," Sabe reported.

"What has Bail done with his cloak?"

"Given it to General Kenobi – he's tossed it onto a seat behind them."

Padme's hands clenched together. A classified security crisis to be handed over to the Jedi for investigation… had they not just lived through a similar nightmare? The carousel of fortune seemed to turn upon a very narrow axle, bringing them round to this fatal point of repetition with sickening regularity. "Thank you, Sabe." There was little more she would discover tonight. The opulent mummery upon the stage below was abruptly hollowed of any amusement. She stiffened her spine, composed her features and returned to expressionless fulfillment of her expected role.

She merely sat, and was beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 2**

"Going somewhere?"

Anakin slowed to a halt, folding his mechno arm over his flesh one and favoring his impertinent padawan learner with a fulminating stare worthy of Master Obi-Wan himself. "Obviously, young one." He could channel his former mentor quite nicely when occasion demanded.

The lithe Togruta sashayed forward, her whole demeanor bespeaking a total lack of proper Jedi deference and courtesy, much less _modesty._ Ahsoka was, as the pleasure slave traders on Tatooine used to say, a loaded ticket – and she knew it. The way she swaggered around, much less dressed – well, it was safe to say that she _never_ would have made it as Master Kenobi's padawan. It was a good thing Anakin found her quirks endearing. Nobody else in the Temple would have. "Anything I should know about, Skyguy?"

"Nope." He kept skewering her with the patented Look, but predictably enough it had little effect.

"You know, Master," she said, the last word conveying a bare minimum of respect, perhaps that to be afforded a wayward elder sibling, "People talk. About how you're always disappearing from Temple at night. Going out in the city alone." One exotically arched brow curved upward, pulling the white skin marking on her face into an expressive mask of disapproval. "It reflects badly on _both of us."_

"Well, then," he smugly quipped. "Looks like you're gonna get another lesson in humility tonight." He brushed past her, headed for the nearest unmarked aircar in the docking queue.

His apprentice all but stamped her foot after him. "Why don't you _trust _ me?"

He leapt into the pilot's seat of his chosen conveyance and flipped his ID chit into the ignition coder. "I do trust you, Ahsoka." Earnestly, openly. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd return the favor."

"Oh." Those ridiculously large eyes dropped, and her shoulders slumped a little. For a second she looked like the gangly initiate he'd met on Christophsis' ruined boulevards. "Sorry… I'll just… "

"See you in the morning. _Early,"_ he stressed.

She perked up at the recollection of their planned sparring match. "Yes, Master. See you then." A pert smile, curving her purple-stained lips upward at the corners. And off she went, partially mollified – at least enough to put the sassy spring back in her stride as she trounced off into the Temple proper. Anakin engaged the repulsors and edged his battered air-car out the open hangar doors, dropping twenty meters and accelerating hard into Coruscant's fire-fretted night.

A standard issue security drone cam-bot fell into tracking pattern behind him, skimming along like a vulture fighter on his tail. He led it a merry chase through the legislative district and the adjacent recreational tower complex, doubled back toward the Temple and then reversed thrusters, causing the tiny, tenacious spy-bot to overshoot him. Idling along level with his automated stalker, he snared it with a tendril of the Force, reeled it in until he was no more than a meter from the holo-receptor circuit, gave the camera a good long stare so the operator might know _exactly_ whom he was kriffing with, and then fisted his hand, thereby crushing the unfortunate droid to a crumpled and sparking ball. Its rumpled corpse fell gracelessly through the city's sky toward street level a kilometer below.

Not that he had a personal hang-up with the new security measures. He just resented them being applied to himself.

Another wide loop to avoid similar unwanted invasion of privacy and he made it safely to the penthouse suite's landing pad. He was over the aircar's side panel and telling Threepio to shut up and open the doors in the next breath.

"Oh, Master Anakin, how serendipitous! My mistress has just now arrived back from the Opera house, and I must say-"

"Excuse me." He shouldered past the dithering protocol unit, making a beeline for Padme's boudoir.

The curved plexiglass skylight windows had been adjusted to full opacity; only the soft wall-sconces provided illumination to the scene. Sabe made a full curtsey and fled the scene upon his arrival, abandoning her complicated task half-way to completion.

"Anakin!" exclaimed the most beautiful woman on Coruscant, or probably any other planet in the galaxy. She rose clumsily from the stool where she sat enmeshed in the complexities of her own attire, the bindings of her frock only partially undone, her head relieved of the cumbersome sculptured adornment but her hair still bound and curled in rigidly piled geometries of its own.

He got down to work with all the impassioned interest of a master engineer. "What is this stuff?"

"Don't _rip,_ Anakin, those rhinestones belong to the Nubian royal house – careful-"

Her words ended in a gasp of relief; the constricting fortifications of the dress ended as a ruinous heap of silk and glittering studs. She took a step out of the piled detritus and was swept off her feet in a wide circle.

"Padme. I missed you." The dizzying motion became a double barrel roll onto her wide bed; evasive maneuvers proved futile, and there was no question of escaping his first strafing run.

"…Anakin…"

"Boshuda!" he yelped, pricking his finger on one of the fiendish hair-pins keeping the elaborate coiffure in place. "Ow."

"Here, _hatari,_ let me make it better." She applied her most tender ministrations to the injured digit and then made her own assault on his belt and tabards. "All I could think of at the Opera house was _you- _ I saw Obi-Wan in the Chancellor's box and I could barely sit still –"

Her husband's head jerked up, blue eyes aflame with mock-hurt. "You need to see Obi-Wan to think about _me?"_

"No," she laughed, "That's not what I meant, and you know it!"

"I don't know what I know about what you meant, my lady. Politics are too complicated for me." This accented by a very straightforward assault, exemplifying the aggressive direct approach for which the Hero Without Fear was famed.

"Oh, _Anakin!"_

Outside, Threepio's polite knocking went unnoticed. Sabe had the presence of mind to set the protocol unit on a timed shut-down before she slipped away through the back entrance, quietly melding into the anonymity of the three trillion citizens who were not, at that moment, orbiting the bright solar splendor of their own bliss.


	3. Chapter 3

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 3**

Apprentice healer Phiatalleika Esoro – more formally known as Padawan Esoro, and informally known as "Phia", a moniker bestowed upon her by affectionate crèche masters in days bygone - twisted her long, jet-black hair into a knot and fastened it behind her head with a supple wooden pin. The knot came undone promptly every half-hour, and was on this account a constant source of reprimands. Master Vokara Che had, in fact, just this morning suggested that the hair was itself a shameful sign of vanity and a dangerous distraction. But then, Master Che has beautiful blue _lekkui _ in lieu of any hair, so her diatribe against unnecessary personal ornaments had fallen upon suitably meek but not entirely sympathetic ears.

Phia was not a stranger to opulence. She had been delivered to the Jedi Temple fifteen years previous wrapped in the extravagant brocade of the Minzhu ruling family in the Shae-Wei system. She did not remember anything of her exalted heritage, and had worn nothing but the simplest linen since that day, but perhaps some of the fighting warlord spirit of her forbears was passed down with that priceless raiment now consigned as curiosity to the Archives collection. She had no intention of shearing off her ebony crown simply because her superior had pointedly _hinted_ that this would be proper.

It would take an outright command to sway young Phia's will – but Vokara Che was no pushover, nor one to look lightly upon mutiny in the ranks. If healers, even those as inexperienced as Phia, were not at a premium of demand, both here and across the war-ravaged galaxy, the young Jedi might have found herself in dire straits indeed; but as things stood, her insubordination merely earned her a week's worth of late-night shifts in the Halls of Healing.

Boredom was its own severe discipline. She sighed heavily and checked the chronometer yet again. Long past midnight but not nearly close enough to dawn. She crossed the wide, cool central courtyard with its fountains and soft lighting, and entered the corridors beyond. Her task was simple: to see to the immediate welfare of those currently under the healers' care. Since every patient resident was either deep in a healing trance or soundly asleep beneath the more uncivilized influence of pharmaceutical agents, this meant she was at loose ends for most the night – duty-bound to remain awake, while lacking any stimulation to encourage her body and mind to cooperate with that mandate. A subtle punishment, indeed.

She was almost glad – in a selfish manner – when a late-night visitor appeared at the reception desk, cloak's cowl pulled up and mental shields drawn so tight he might as well not have been there at all.

"Do you need help, Master?" she inquired of the guest.

The hood was lowered. "I'm so sorry to disturb you," the newcomer said, only his extremely wan complexion and a certain tight edge to his voice betraying anything amiss. Phia's tentative mental probe slid off adamantine defenses, finding no purchase.

She frowned. "I'll – I'll tell Master Che."

"There's no need-"

"But there is!" she interrupted, immediately blushing at her rashness. "She said I was to fetch her _personally _ if you came again."

The visitor released a very slow breath, brows twitching upward wryly. "I see."

"I'll be right back. Won't you – why don't you _sit, _Master? Before you collapse."

She was favored with that same half-humorous, half-admonitory look. "I made it this far, Padawan. I think I can manage not to embarrass either of us with a _dramatic scene."_

"Oh." Phia gaped, opened her mouth to make some equally ineffectual stuttering reply and then turned tail and fled. She slipped into the small alcove adjacent to the head healers' office, where the redoubtable Vokara Che stole her brief hours of repose.

"Master?" Phia knelt beside the low palette, nudging at her mentor with the Force.

The elderly Twi'Lek opened liquid amber eyes and levered herself up on one arm. "What is it, child?"

"It's – Master Kenobi is here. I think he needs help again."

Vokara Che rolled off her sleep couch, spry and immediately wakeful. "Who brought him in this time?" she demanded, throwing on an umber robe over her flowing night shift.

Phia stood, shaking her head. "Nobody. He came by himself."

This simple revelation arrested the senior healer in mid-stride. "Stars' end," she breathed, hastening out the door in alarm. "Foolish man, he's probably on the brink of collapse."

Her apprentice scurried in her wake. "He said he made it this far, there was no need to –"

"And you listened to that nonsense?" Vokara Che scoffed. She stormed into the tranquil foyer like a scudding thunderhead and seized the subject of this discussion by one arm. "Sweet _Force, _have you no sense in that purportedly brilliant head of yours?" she addressed him, brusque as ever.

Phia took up a supportive position on the Jedi Master's other side, bracing herself as he wavered where he stood. They made it halfway down the nearest corridor and entered a narrow doorway on the left.

"This way. Here. Now – off with that cloak, lie down, yes. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate this pain?"

"…Five?" Master Kenobi gritted out, eyes closed.

"That's a nine," Vokara Che barked over her shoulder. Phia obediently tapped the electrostylus across her datapad's surface.

The healer splayed both elegant hands over her patient's temples. "Shields down," she ordered, hissing a little as he complied with the order. "How long?"

Deep centering breath for both of them. Phia reeled in the mere echoes within the plenum, nausea creeping in despite her control, the ghost of a migraine throbbing behind her own eyes.

"Ah… early this evening," Master Kenobi mumbled, sheepishly. "I don't really-"

"No, you certainly don't," the Twi"lek agreed, caustically. "Phia – healing crystals _and_ twenty units of somataphine. Quickly."

The wide eyed padawan hastened down the corridor to the supply room, deftly re-twisting her escaping knot of black hair into place and fastening it with its ornamental pin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 4**

Anakin had already disappeared, like a faint morning dew dissolving beneath Tatooine's merciless suns, when Padme awoke. Only a suggestion of his scent, and a warm hollow in the bedclothes beside her, gave proof that last night's tryst had not been a fond construct of her imagination. That and the incredible languor possessing her every limb.

"Milady! Oh dear, me, Milady!" An insistent tapping at the bedroom door jolted her pleasantly wandering mind back to the present moment. Threeio's blunt digits hammered repeatedly against the smooth panel.

"Door. Open," she ordered, but her hoarse morning-voice was not recognized by the audio-circuits. "Door. Open. Open…oh, for the love of…" She rolled out of bed and shuffled across the lavish room to unlock the portal manually. "What is it, Threeio?" she wearily inquired of her droid servant.

The burnished protocol unit jerked his hands spasmodically. "I am so sorry to disturb you, Mistress Padme, but he's here quite early and he won't be put off –"

"Who?"

"Senator Organa, of course."

She clutched her thin nightshirt closed. Bail. Here, before seventh hour. It must be important. "Make caff – I'll be out in moment. Tell him not to go anywhere."

The droid bumbled away to fulfill this pedestrian task, and she dashed for her private fresher, grimacing at the mess her wardrobe had been left in. Sabe would chastise her soundly for misuse of the Nubian people's resources – with a sly glint in her brown eyes the whole time, of course – and then tuck everything away neatly as though nothing untoward had happened.

Fifteen minutes later she was washed, perfumed, had her hair under a semblance of control, and had armored herself in a floor length dressing gown stiff and elaborate enough to pass as formal attire on most planets. "Bail," she greeted her guest, accepting a cup of the strongly brewed argees Threeio proffered as she sat upon one of the curved sofa benches in her solarium.

He drained his cup and held it out for a refill. "Forgive my intrusion – but I'll be in session all day, and we need to talk."

"There's a new situation brewing, isn't there?" Padme took a tentative sip of the bitter liquid, wincing as it burned her lips.

The Alderaanian nodded. "Touching on our troops. It isn't good, Padme. It looks like another bioweapon."

Her hand shook, and a droplet spattered on her robe's front. Fortunately the indigo velveteen absorbed the dark stain without a trace. "Again? We just.. Lanteeb was mere months again. The Separatists can't have rallied to the fight so quickly…"

He shook his head. "This might be different. It impacts Kaminoan profit margins severely. I suspect an economic motive. Before we classify this as another act of terrorism, I'd like to pursue my hunch."

Padme set the cup its saucer and stilled her trembling hands, The affair on Lanteeb had brought Anakin – and Obi-Wan – far, far too close to the edge of destruction. The entire clandestine mission had seemed a cruel trap, and their miraculous last-moment destruction of the laboratory facility and discovery of a useful antidote to the bioweapon manufactured theirein were surely not feats that could be repeated ad infinitum.

Even Jedi had limits.

She smiled a little to herself. Those limits might be hard to reach, in certain contexts… but she was sure they existed.

Bail was watching her soberly. "I'm sorry to burden you with more secrets."

"No – it's all right." She straightened her spine. "What can I do to help?"

He spread his hands, smoothing the impeccable crease in his well-tailored trousers. "Get in with the Kaminoan senatorial representative. The Security Committee needs to know who might have motive to ruin the Kaminoan operation. A rival, an enemy, an inside job. It must be one of these."

"And you don't want to launch an official investigation."

"Not until we have to." He stood. "I know I can rely on you."

Padme rose with him. "I'm a well-known anti-militarist. I doubt the Kaminoans will even permit me over their threshold."

Bail took her fingers in his hand and bestowed a polite kiss upon their tips. "I know you'll think of something." He winked, and then nodded curtly to Threepio. "Thank you for the caff. It was delicious."

"My pleasure," the droid burbled, servos creaking as it cleared away the mess.

Padme followed Organa out onto the landing pad. "When you say, impact profit margins..," she clarified.

"I mean there have been upwards of six hundred deaths already," he responded tightly, not making eye contact. "You understand that these will not be registered as official casualties because Kamino has offered a full refund for damaged merchandise, and the units in question had not been enrolled in the citizenship rosters yet. They are considered non-viable products of cloning technology and were disposed of as bio-hazardous waste."

Padme touched his shoulder. "Six hundred?"

"At the Deodar training base. There might be other incidents – we only found out about this one because a Service Corps officer happened to be present during a routine inspection. Something's very wrong, Padme."

She swallowed down the aftertaste of bitter caff and watched the already crowded morning traffic flit indifferently in the sky. "I'll find a way to meet with Halle Burtoni today. Whatever it takes."

Bail received her pledge with a tiny smile, gratitude slackening his tense posture. "Thank you. It would be good if the Republic could .. resolve.. this issue without dragging in the Jedi again. I have a bad feeling about involving them so closely."

And in that, they shared an unspoken accord. Padme watched Bail's sleek speeder rise and dwindle into a speck among the flitting free-fly lanes, the pinks and golds of the early-hour sky seeming to bleed into the darker purple above like some weird seepage from the underlevels, something flowing up out of dark places to mingle with the ostensibly purer realms above..

Nothing was simple anymore, and joy a thing to be hastily snatched between the harrowing demands of duty. She sighed and turned back within, hoping that Sabe would return soon. A busy and unpleasant day lay ahead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 5**

"Okay, Snips. That's enough for today."

The look Ahsoka shot him in reply was pure, undiluted sass. She cocked her weight onto one hip and deactivated both 'sabers. "You only said that because I almost disarmed you, Skyguy."

Impertinent whelp. Anakin snorted. "Almost," he repeated, emphasizing the word with a sharp jab of his gloved finger. "Maybe we'd go longer if you actually _did._ I prefer a challenge." It was important to keep your apprentice in her place- one way or another.

The young Togruta's dark lips curved into a wry smile. "I'll pass that on to Master Kenobi, next time he gives me a lesson."

Her mentor filed this tidbit of information away for later processing. He'd been wondering – idly – whom it was that had been tutoring his protégé in the complexities of Jar Kai. She'd certainly come up with a few _unexpected_ moves with her _shoto _this time around – things he'd never shown her in their extended sparring matches, stuff the common initiate training classes seldom covered. So. Obi-Wan.

"Huh. Old age and treachery go hand in hand," he smirked.

That got Ahsoka thinking twice about the wisdom of opening her mouth. "Oops," she peeped. "I wasn't supposed to tell. I mean, I can tell you, Master – but the thing is, he said –"

"Yeah." Anakin clipped his own weapon at his belt. "He's supposed to be on convalescent furlough, teaching senior Padawan classes and meditating."

Contrite, and eager to undo her diplomatic blunder, Ahsoka jogged to catch him up as they headed to the shower rooms. "Well, he was teaching a senior Padawan, right? Because I'm technically senior now. And he said that moving meditation counts as –"

"I know what he said." Anakin didn't need a blow by blow. He could practically hear his friend's self-confident drawl, that deceptively mild voice explaining just _why_ it was that when he, Obi-Wan, violated the conditions of his parole, it was to be counted as perfect meek compliance, whereas the same reckless actions on the part of others, such as former padawans, would always be a sign of indocility and truculence. "You know Snips, it's way more important to listen to what Master Obi-Wan doesn't say than what he does. A word to the wise."

She halted, the cockiness sliding off her face. "I know Master. I _did… _ I mean, I suggested it to him, after – you know – the funeral. Because … what he doesn't say." Her eyes dropped to the floor. "I really liked Master Damsin, too. We were both sort of… "

He folded his arms, then. Jedi weren't supposed to care so much – not about one individual, not in a way that looked like _attachment _ from the outside. He had his own opinion, however. "Grief isn't shameful, Ahsoka," he said, wincing at the snappish undertone in his own voice.

She scowled up at him. "Yes, Master."

Anakin shifted in place, unaccountably annoyed that his padawan had picked up on a subtlety of Obi-Wan's mood that _he_ had somehow missed… or ignored.

Because he really didn't want to go there. Not after _ten years_ of lectures about the virtue of detachment, the dangers of romantic involvement, the utmost importance of cultivating strict discipline over one's own affections, the custody of the passions—_stang. _

"Master?"

"Nothing. It was compassionate of you to babysit him while he was _grieving."_

Ahsoka's extravagant eyes widened in shock. Now he'd crossed a line – and set a pretty bad example, too, come to think of it. But too late now.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, and beat a hasty retreat into the females-only 'fresher.

Whatever. He would explain that little outburst later, if he got a chance. It wasn't disrespect… it was the truth. He stalked into the adjacent empty shower room and found it all but empty. He stripped off his soaking garments and chucked them into the laundry receptacle with a acerbic precision.

Water. Real water, waste be kriffed. Even after all these years, he couldn't expunge the first lessons of Tatooine from his psyche. Water was precious, to be hoarded. He let it run down his back and shoulders, curl into the vacuum drain leading to the 'cycler. Friendship was precious too, but that could run down the spout just as easily.

Obi-Wan should have said something to him.

Or he should have said something, maybe.

That was the problem – it was so vaping hard to _talk_ to the man. Even when you were _talking_ to him, you weren't. Not unless he allowed it, which sometimes he did – but not recently, Not since Lanteeb. And he had _never yet_ filled Anakin in on all the details of Zigoola. And not at all about his personal life, it would seem. It was like that time, all those years ago, when Anakin had pressed him for details about Qui-Gon – not the usual stories about missions or this or that wise thing the Jedi master said, but the _real_, important things, like Anakin's memories of Shmi – and the conversation had flash frozen to sub-zero in a microsecond. There were parts of Obi-Wan so jealously guarded that _nobody_ got to see them.

Anakin had missed Taria Damsin's funeral. He had been on Allanteen VI, in the Republic shipyards, tinkering again. Trying to fine tune the anti-anti-comm software and circuitry upgrades in the aftermath of the Kothlis campaign. There were pyres or at least remembrance beacons lit at the Temple every day now, often for more than one fallen hero. The war swallowed Jedi whole, greedy as a Hutt slurping down live grogs for breakfast. They were all so well practiced at grieve-not-for-those-who-return-to-the-Force memorials, ever since Geonosis, that even the tiny younglings in the crèche could keep a straight face when another one of their family was immolated before their eyes.

And as for _Obi-Wan, _ the Negotiator had never wept at a funeral. Anakin had been there on Naboo, watching, and his much younger master had remained stonily impassive, shedding not a single tear for Qui-Gon Jinn, his mentor, his idol, his kriffing _father._

The automatic timer kicked in and the hot jet-stream came to an abrupt halt. The air blast dryer was like a brisk slap in the face – a sharp reminder of a promise given to a dying woman.

He had sworn to Taria – before her light guttered and failed – that he would watch over his friend. Even if the infuriating barve didn't admit he needed any watching-over. Even if he didn't have the decency to _weep_ at Taria's funeral, and never bothered to tell Anakin anything important except all that tired boshuda about custody of the passions. Because Anakin, unlike _some_ people, wasn't afraid to admit to himself that he loved.

And he would _take care of_ those whom he blessed with that all-demanding gift.


	6. Chapter 6

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 6**

Phiatalleika Esoro kept her eyes trained on the pale floor.

She felt distinctly uncomfortable being witness to the rare event of a full ranking Jedi Master getting a thorough dressing-down. It seemed.. disrespectful, somehow. As though it was not her place to be here. Vokara Che had insisted, of course – the senior healer's implied explanation that _this_ was a skill her young apprentice would someday have to acquire was sufficient to command Phia's obedience in the matter, if not her ease of mind.

Still, Master Kenobi seemed to be taking it with relative serenity. Relative.

"And I do not care to hear whatever perverse justification you may have concocted to _excuse_ such an egregious error of judgment," Master Che was saying.

Master Kenobi's eyebrows rose. "Believe me, I'd be far happier if I could credit this to bad judgment. I did _nothing_ to occasion a relapse."

The tall Twi'Lek folded her own arms, posture mirroring her unintimidated patient's. "_Nothing?"_ The slight husky accent that colored Vokara Che's Basic came out more clearly when she was agitated. "There must be a cause," she reasoned with him, admonitory tone dampening slightly. "We've been over this before; in the case of a simple physiological allergy, symptoms are triggered by the presence of the allergen – or, under certain conditions, by physical stress. In your case, if my theory is correct, a parallel principle can be applied. If you had a reaction _this_ strong, you must have been either dabbling directly in something steeped in the Dark, or else driving yourself to the edge of exhaustion."

A disgruntled sigh. "In the Temple?"

The healer relented a little. "It does seem unlikely, Master Kenobi, but I've long since despaired of applying the dictates of common sense to your case."

"Thank you."

Phia almost giggled at the trenchancy of that retort, but she managed to keep her outward composure intact. A flicker in the Force told her that her reaction had not gone unnoticed by the speaker.

Master Che switched tactics, softening her demeanor. "Tell me what you did yesterday."

"It was a lovely day." More sarcasm; Phia was getting a feel for Master Kenobi's style. The more bitter his reality, the more mercilessly he poked fun at it. Some might call it _irreverence –_ for the Force itself, the power that guided all destinies – but she saw it as a kind of deep wisdom. Focus determined reality, did it not? And so, if one could alchemically transmute misfortune or suffering into farce, into black humor, then that was a kind of victory, a triumph of mind over circumstance. She could not suppress the tiny smile that quirked at her lips, but she kept her head down to avoid her master's disapproving stare.

"I spent the morning working on the Naxellus treaty," he continued with a disgusted curl of the lip, "And then accompanied Master Yoda to a meeting with the Chancellor at the Coruscant opera house, of all places." A beat, in which Phia made the mistake of meeting his twinkling eyes. "The performance _was_ dreadful – ostentatious and overdone… but I shouldn't go so far as to say _Dark._"

The elegant Twi'Lek released a small huff of vexation. "That will be enough, Padawan." Her subordinate immediately sobered, but not before she caught the tiny wink cast in her direction.

"Perhaps a medical ban on all meetings with politicians in future?" the Jedi master hopefully suggested.

Vokara Che was in no mood to countenance his flippancy. "Next time you will come to me before the pain reaches such an extremity."

"Next time," he grumbled.

"I think we must admit that this _is_ a chronic condition, Master Kenobi. Something you will have to accommodate. I am sorry, " – and she meant it – "That Zigoola should have left you with such an unkind legacy. But a Jedi adapts. Resentment, and denial, are not forms of adaptation."

This blow seemed to strike home. He dipped his head. "Yes, Master Che."

Placated, Vokara Che made some further entries on her datapad. "You will spend today meditating and engaging in _light_ activity only. And I am forwarding the medical transcript to Master Yoda, per his request." The unspoken threat behind this statement was wasted on nobody in the small room.

"Really," Master Kenobi began.

"There will be no _negotiating_ your way out of this," the healer cut him off. "Save your breath."

"I see. Well, in that case, perhaps I ought to be on my way. I've a pressing amount of meditation and light activity to undertake… and idle loitering is not a form of adaptation."

The healers amber eyes narrowed dangerously, but her piercing gaze was met with an exuberantly impertinent grin. Phia would have sworn – before that moment – that Vokars Che was immune to the influence of charm, but the tiny glint of amusement that lightened in her teacher's eyes as she strategically turned away told another story.

"Phia. Bring the man some breakfast and tea – and then see that he doesn't collapse again on the way out."

"Yes, Master Che." The apprentice healer wished she had the courage to shoot Master Kenobi a look of purest admiration as she left, but she didn't dare in her formidable mentor's presence. She quickly readjusted her falling hair-knot and scampered into the corridor outside, in search of the droid nutritionist.

She ran into six feet of black tunics and hard muscle instead.

"Oh! Master Skywalker!" she squeaked.

"Easy, Padawan," the Temple's resident prodigy said, steadying her with one hand.

She looked up and up into his scarred and yet still striking face. "I'm sorry, Master – excuse my unbecoming haste –"

He grinned then, an echo of the winning smile Master Kenobi had flashed a moment earlier. "Fleeing Master Che? I don't blame you."

At which point the senior healer herself emerged from the doorway, and favored him with a melting stare.

Anakin Skywalker bowed low.

"Yes," the Twi'Lek addressed him, one hand raised in warning. "He is in there. And yes, you may see him. But you will _not _ cause another disruption in these halls."

"We'll be good, Master Che. I promise."

The healer snorted and swept away on her considerable dignity. Phia made her own clumsy bow and darted off in the opposite direction to find some tea and suitable food, leaving the infamous team of Kenobi and Skywalker to their own devices.


	7. Chapter 7

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 7**

Anakin barged in without fanfare, as was his wont. "Going somewhere?"

Obi-Wan pulled his bootstrap snug and fastened it. "Presumably." He glanced up, not likig the high-handed stance his former padawan had adopted. "And I've had one lecture today already, so spare me the monotony of another."

Anakin grinned, unabashed by the curt warning. "Grumpy. Better stick around for that tea Master Che promised you – can't unleash you on the Temple otherwise."

"Ha ha." Obi-Wan found his 'saber and placed it reverently at his belt, then unfolded his cloak. "Speaking of unleashing, where is your apprentice?"

Anakin snorted. "Doing penance for insubordination. She tried to _disarm_ me in saber practice this morning. Using some pretty novel _Jar Kai_ techniques."

Obi-Wan could not entirely suppress his pleased smile. "She is a fast learner, Anakin. You should be proud."

"She's a fast learner and you're an underhanded akk. Don't think I don't know where she picked that stuff up." Anakin wagged a finger beneath his mentor's nose. "You're fostering sedition in the ranks."

"The partnership is right when the student teaches the master, my young friend."

"I'm glad you mentioned that, actually." Anakin smirked. "I've got a few things I'd like to talk about with you."

Obi-Wan shifted position, edging into a defensive saber stance. But he was saved from the inconvenience of making a reply by Phia, who chose this moment to enter with a laden tray. "Ah, tea. Thank you." He helped himself to the steaming cup and waved aside the other contents, wary of the lingering nausea in the aftermath of last night's debacle.

"You should eat, Master," the padawan timidly protested.

Anakin jumped into the fray. "I'll help with that." He filched the fruit and the compressed grain bar for himself, and waved the hydraulic door open for his companion. "After you."

They sauntered down the corridor toward the exit, side by side. "How goes the cyberwar on Allanteen?" Obi-Wan politely inquired.

"Well enough. We've located the encryption matrix for their bug... but there's no way to be sure we've rooted it all out without a test run in combat conditions. I've done all I can; if there's a bigger problem, it can't be fixed."

"I thought you could fix _anything,"_ the older man teased.

"Anything mechanical," Anakin corrected him. "That pile of poodoo interface technology Seinar Industries sold us last cycle doesn't _count."_

They chuckled together over that. Obi-Wan casually levitated his empty cup onto the reception desk at the Halls' main entrance.

"How 'bout the Naxellus situation? I heard they made a full surrender to Republic occupation yesterday – congratulations."

Obi-Wan's happy mood dissipated. "Yes. Well." They were _not_ discussing his latest _victory._ Vokara Che has mandated _light_ activity, had she not?

Anakin glanced sideways, frowning. "What? You were the treaty architect, weren't you?"

"It's not something for which I'd like bragging rights," the Jedi Master replied, tightly. "And stop changing the subject."

The lift at the corridor's end was empty. "Fine. Let's talk about you instead." Anakin hit the lift operation panel and fixed his friend with a penetrating look. "What's with you and the healers?"

Obi-Wan lifted his shoulders, projecting bland indifference. "Routine maintenance. I'm getting old, as you never tire of pointing out. Now stop fretting like a mother thranctill hen."

"Huh." The evasive reply did not satisfy. Anakin stopped the lift and blocked access to the control panel. "I was with you on Lanteeb, remember? Come on. What's going on?"

Obi-Wan used the Force to reactivate the repulsor-drive. The carriage lurched upward again. "Nothing, Anakin."

The younger man slammed his mechanical hand against the wall, palm-first. "Just like there was _nothing_ between you and Taria Damsin. I'm sick to kriffing death of the bantha chisszzk, Master!"

It was a clumsy strike, but it grazed over a raw wound. Obi-Wan pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away. "We'll talk later when you've better control of yourself," he said, exiting at the next level. His cloak skirled forlornly at his heels as he headed up the concourse at a brisk clip, leaving Anakin behind.

"Kriff it," the latter person muttered, knowing better than to give chase. He slammed the lift doors closed with the Force and shot to the top level on this wing, headed for the hangar bay outlet.

* * *

Once inside the Temple's spacious maintenance bay, he was greeted by an enthusiastic whistle from his loyal astromech.

"Hey, Artoo." The dome-topped droid wheeled in place and scooted along beside him as he stalked his way across the echoing deck. A curious, almost timid burble inquired after the cause of his ill temper.

"It's not you, buddy. Obi-Wan's driving me _yarbo_ again."

A sharp tweet and bleep, signifying woeful sympathy.

Anakin spotted his star-fighter on the far side and made a beeline for it. "Never mind. He's got a loose wire somewhere, that's all."

The fighter's thruster array and radiation dampers were in dishabille, the tools and half-finished circuit interfaces left reverently untouched by the droid crew. Anakin's projects were sacrosanct, and exempt from the otherwise unbending standards of tidiness that reined in the Temple hangars. He flopped onto his back and slid beneath the chassis, plunging himself into the soothing routine of mechanical _perfection._

"Artoo, hop up in the socket would ya? I need a diagnostic on this new fuel router."

The blue and white astromech complied, extending an arm to meld his own internal cyberpathways with the ship's onboard piloting computer. Droid and master hummed and whistled together, lost in the labyrinth of machinery for a long stretch of minutes.

"Whad we need," Anakin decided, holding a stray piece of wiring between his teeth, "Id a mission. Get the hells oud o' here. So I can acsh'lly talk to 'im." He finished the delicate task and considered his handiwork for a moment before sliding back out from beneath the gold and grey Lancet's hull.

Artoo expressed his uncertainty in a long string of snootles and whizzes.

"Yeah, well, it doesn't have to be _clandestine._ You can take undercover work and shove it, so far as I'm concerned."

An emphatic raspberry of agreement.

"Right," the young Jedi smirked. "That's exactly where you can shove it. C'mon, let's give Ahsoka's ship a tune up while we're at it."


	8. Chapter 8

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 8**

"Which dress, Milady?" Sabe inquired.

It was an important diplomatic question. Halle Burtoni, cunning and malicious Senatorial representative from Kamino, was a force to be reckoned with. The aged Kaminoan was a wizened matriarch – a creature so pickled in her own spite that every wrinkle in her pallid skin was matched by a deeper wrinkle in her bitter soul. Attire, was of course, a rhetorician's first form of address. How to present herself to the contemptuous old crone? Regal? Sedate? Severe?

The beleaguered Nubian Senator sighed, and longed for the simplicity of - say, Anakin's wardrobe. Nobody ever looked askance at Jedi tunics; even singed and torn, they carried with them a certain mystique.

Sabe solved the dilemma nicely. "Here," the loyal attaché decided, laying out the form-fitting gription bodysuit Padme favored for more… athletic… excursions. "Straight to the point."

Padme smiled at that. The white cloth still bore a faint blaster-burn here and there and some well-placed but still visible reparative stitching put into the seams post-Geonosis. She only kept the thing as a sort of souvenir of that fateful day – the day on which she and Anakin had finally declared their undying devotion to one another and then faced death in the Geonosian execution arena. But it would do nicely for the present occasion, suggestive as it was of stark combative realities, and the experience of war that bound Kamino's and Naboo's fates together. "You're right, as always, Sabe."

A mischievous smirk tugged at the handmaiden's lips. "And there's no harm in reminding old Halle what she no longer _has,_ Milady."

"Sabe!" Giggling, they worked in unison to wrest Padme into the Padme-shaped contours of her chosen costume.

"Let me do up your hair and then we'll go."

* * *

Halle Burtoni was in fine form that morning.

"What's _this?"_ the ancient Kaminoan murmured, glazed and bulging eyes narrowing disdainfully as her gaze raked Padme Amidala head to foot. "Why, Senator Amidala… I don't recall offering you my hospitality this morning. I presume this is a business call?"

The Nubian Senator lifted her chin. "A word with you, please. I won't take any more of your valuable time than necessary."

Her cantankerous colleague waved her inside with one pale hand, attenuated digits graceful despite their advanced arthritis. Burtoni's squat head wobbled atop her crooked neck with its sagging flaps of desiccated skin, the peculiar scale-like quality of Kaminoan flesh more apparent with the ravages of age. "Very well. Spit out what you have to say and be gone."

Padme seated herself in a scoop chiar and was grateful for Sabe's discreet presence by her side. "You may not believe me, Senator Burtoni, but we have a common concern."

"We do?" The Kaminoan huffed to herself, clacking her long cane peevishly across the polished floor. Her ornate robes rustled as she lowered herself into the opposite chair. "And what pray tell could a shortsighted idealist such as yourself have in common with _me?"_

Padme swallowed some of the instinctive ire this jab inspired. Diplomacy. Always diplomacy. "While I oppose this war and the unethical means employed to perpetuate it –" she held her reluctant hostess' appalled gaze unflinchingly – "I also recognize that any threat to so _many_ innocent young men is something no decent person would overlook."

"Whatever _are_ you talking about?" the Kamonoan demanded, sourly.

Sabe risked a tiny wide-eyed shake of the head. Pame braced herself. "The loss of six hundred clone cadets on Deodar," she said, simply.

"Oh… for a moment I thought you meant citizens," Halle Burtoni scoffed. She waved a languid hand, dismissing her guest's outrage as childish indignation over some trifling matter of economics.

Then her puckered mouth curved downward sharply in displeasure. "But you should not know about that." Her eyes slatted. "I see that Senator Organa is given to rather loose-tongued pillow talk."

Sabe's hand on her knee kept Padme firmly in place. Useful – the rumor was useful. "You are not addressing my question. Surely your people are as eager as I am to solve the difficulty?"

Burtoni's head swayed back and forth, anger flaring her vestigial gills. "Hmmph. And why should I trust you?"

This was the delicate part. Padme spread her hands. "I can make inquiries you cannot. After all, I'm a notorious anti-militarist. Nobody in the legislature will suspect me of harboring any interest in your internal affairs."

But the Kaminoan wasn't buying at the price.

Time for aggressive negotiations. "And, contrariwise, I am very well connected in the information net. It would be unfortunate if news of this tragedy reached the public at a time and in a manner inconvenient to your profits. The Republic is deeply indebted to private sources for wartime funding; many of those private corporate investors might panic and withdraw support if they suspect a catastrophic failure."

Burtoni stood, lipless mouth rumpling into a sinuous line of wrath. "Blackmail."

"Leverage. I am sure you understand the concept perfectly."

The Kaminoan made a slow circuit of the room, grumbling to herself. An ostentatious pendant slung about her scrawny neck swung ominously as she tottered along the office perimeter, a heavy pendulum of thought. She halted behind Padme, thrusting her long neck over the young woman's shoulder.

"Very well, you manipulating little _vetch. _You leave me little choice. And do give my compliments to Senator Organa when you see him again… he has an exotic taste in pets."

Padme stood, wiling herself not to blush at the misplaced insults. "Tell me who might be responsible. I promise I will do my utmost to discover the truth."

Burtoni stumped over to her desk and ejected a data crystal from the imbedded reader. "This file details our list of likely suspects," she spat out, handing over the tiny device to her human visitor. "And you," – the cane swing abruptly upward, a sharp line of warning wavering inches from Padme's face – "Were never here."

"Believe me," the latter person replied. "I would rather that were the case."

She and Sabe were ushered out the door with none too good a grace.

* * *

Once safely around the corridor's bend, they sank onto a low bench and laughed away the stress of the surreal encounter.

"That was well-played, Milady."

Padme leaned her head against the textured wall, briefly overcome with relief. "I don't think I've been so repelled by anyone since I was face to face with the Nemoidinas on Naboo. She's just…. vile."

They fell silent as the Uutami delegation filed past them, en route to some dignitary function.

"Come on," Sabe urged her, all professional briskness. "We've a report to deliver."


	9. Chapter 9

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 9**

The door opened before he could so much as summon a tendril of Force to make tentative inquiry whether the room was occupied. "Come in, Obi-Wan. Expect you, I did."

But of course. He swept over the threshold and into a deep bow in one fluid motion, and then – glancing up – noticed that two bowls of tea were waiting, and chandrilan incense already smoldering in its dish. "Am I so predictable?"

Master Yoda's ears waggled to either side of his crenellated skull, every crease and line in his time-worn skin matched by the deep etching of wisdom in his bright soul. "Predictable, perhaps not. Reliable, yes. Steady. Hm. Secure."

So he was _staid._ Just as Anakin always implied. From "you are a restless spirit, Obi-Wan" to "predictable, you are" in the course of a dozen years. Quite a rapid devolution, that. With a small rueful snort at his own expense, he settled himself cross-legged upon the empty meditation cushion.

"Drink," the ancient Jedi commanded, so he did. The _yarba_ brew tasted of bitter earth and sharp leaf, the immediacy of nature, so different from the mellow tannins and delicate overtones which Obi-Wan preferred. But he made no complaint.

"Now. Tell me why you come."

He set his bowl down. "Need I truly, Master? Or is that all too predictable as well?"

A grumbling sort of chuckle met this peevish inquiry. "Considered my request, you have."

"Yes, Master. I have considered it well. And… I presume you saw Master Che's report?"

Yoda waved this aside. "Challenge each other's complacency, you and Vokara Che do. Healthy it is. Intervene, I will not."

Obi-Wan cocked a brow. "I thought the occasion of yet another .. relapse.. might prove a cautionary warning. Loathe though I am to admit it, I am far too compromised to accept any such –"

"Compromised?" the crotchety elder butted in. A loud snort. "Burdens, do we all bear. Weaknesses, have we all. Imperfection, a path to the Dark side is not, Obi-Wan. Suspect I do, that your sights you set too high, hmmm? Demand perfection of yourself, do you still? Pride, is that. And _pride-"_

"Yes, Master. Pride is a wide road leading to the Dark." He folded his hands in his lap for the second time that day, frustrated by the dual accusations of _denial _ and now _pride_ that hemmed him in upon either side. "But that rather proves my point again, does it not?"

Apparently he was not the only one to be frustrated by this contorted line of converation, for Master Yoda slid vexedly off his low perch and commenced a slow perambulation of the room, gnarled stick clutched in equally gnarled hands, tapping out a staccato counterpoint to his words. "Worthiness, this concerns not. At war, the Republic is. A similar war, the Order faces – crisis of balance. Dark and Light vie for supremacy. In such a time, skill and insight we need."

"I did not –"

"Interrupt you will not," the diminutive master snapped. "If sent you on a mission I did, because ability and experience you possess, refuse to go would you?"

"Of course not – I would go, and serve to the utmost of my power. You must know that, Master; I do not –"

"Hhhmph. No different is this. Work to be done there is. Suited to it you are. Require this of you, the Order does, Obi-Wan."

Disarmed and defeated, he still had no great desire to yield. But Yoda's point was well-taken; he felt a burden settle on his shoulders like an impalpable yoke, a heavy weight of duty. And yet there was no accompanying thrum of nausea, nor whisper of headache – no indication at all that this was _wrong, _fundamentally perverse.

A deep inhale, slow exhale. "I will do what I must, then, Master."

"Good." Yoda came to a standstill directly behind him. The gimer stick thrust gently into his back, just between the shoulder blades. "Inform the Council today, I will." A small chortle of delight. "Pleased, Master Windu will be."

That might be so, but in the wake of this warming thought came another far less pleasant and equally certain. _Master Skywalker will not be pleased._ But of course he did not utter the realization aloud.

"Glad I am that settled this is," Yoda declared. "Waste not more time, we shall." He stumped back to his cushion and peered into his empty bowl, then poured another generous serving for himself, wrinkled lips pursing. "Disturbed you are about something else."

He might as well be thoroughly frank – his new position demanded it. "The Naxellus treaty."

"Success it was. Surrendered, the system has. Spared Separatist rule they are, and much suffering."

"At the cost of their dignity and honor. Their indigenous lifeways will not survive this transition." He scowled, already imagining the fallout of his brilliant manipulation.

"Survive they would not, if Dooku ruled," Yoda countered. "Better change with hope of liberty than change with certain enslavement."

Obi-Wan dipped his head. "Yes." So he had reasoned with himself, at the time. It was a case of comparative evils… and yet.. "If the neutral systems were better able to defend their borders –"

"Doomed are the neutral systems, also," Yoda grunted. "Know this you do." A heavy pause. "Peacekeepers are the Jedi. Hard to see is the path of peace in time of universal war. Make our way forward as best we can, sometimes, we must."

Was that an admission that they were, for all intents and purposes, lost at sea in a black fog, even the bright polestar of tradition obscured by the ubiquitous and malignant shroud of the Dark Side? That the Order was, quite possibly, morally compromised to its core by the very conditions of its service to the Senate and the Republic? Vertiginous, he rubbed at one temple, feeling the center of the galaxy shift disconcertingly beneath his feet.

Could the Force turn upon the Jedi themselves, if they fell far enough from their sacred mandate and oaths?

"Obi-Wan." Yoda's gravely voice grounded him back in the concrete moment. "Answer to _that_ must you find in heart, not mind."

Which was, in some strange way, a terrible relief. "Yes, Master."

They drank in silence after that.


	10. Chapter 10

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 10**

The doughty boys of the 501st presented an intimidating mien, every one of their eerily similar faces drawn into a glumly stoic mask, Jango Fett's dark expressive eyes glittering dozens of times over with a barely-stifled rage or hurt.

Ahsoka could feel it like some cold dousing flamm retardant over the Force's bright enthusiasm. Even her habitually pert stride faltered a little as he sauntered into the mess hall on Skyguy's heels. "Master…" she intoned, issuing an unnecessary warning.

Anakin caught her eye, and quelled any further remark on her part with a single scowling look, brows drawn together thunderously as he surveyed the sullen rows of troopers. "Right," the young Jedi muttered, singling out Captain Rex across the echoing chamber's expanse. "Come on."

The redoubtable clone captain sat by himself at the officers' table, shoveling his dense nutrient rich rations in to his mouth with a strange conflagration kindling behind his gaze, a fire to match the suppressed resentment of his brothers. Anakin slid into the bench opposite without waiting for invitation, and slapped his mechanical hand down on the table.

This jolted Rex out of his brooding cogitation. The clone sprang to his feet, snaping into the programmed rigidity of a full salute. "General Skywalker sir." At his action, the entire assembly followed suit, as though connected by an invisible electrical impulse. The scraping of chairs and stomping of heavy combat boots rang off the exposed girders overhead.

"At ease," Skyguy grumbled. "You too, Snips, sit down."

His padawan released her unconscious grip upon both 'saber hilts and sank onto the bench beside him, eyes never leaving Rex's hard face.

"Okay. What's going on?" Anakin demanded.

"It's not my place to question the Republic's –"

"Kriff that, Rex. I asked you a question. Now spit it out."

Ahsoka tensed again as the pair of them faced off across the table, two tenacious wills grappling with some unspoken, difficult chain of command. The only occasions when Rex did not automatically defer to his General's command were those when some aspect of his Kaminoan conditioning was directly challenged. At those times, she thought she could _see- _ or maybe she just sensed it in the Force- the wild struggle of humanity to liberate itself from the constricting vise of infused programming.

Anakin felt it too. There was a breathtaking surge – a flare of bright _anger-_ and Rex flinched, his own will pushed over the edge of some improbable chasm by an unseen hand. "Vape it, sir. It's this business on Deodar. With respect."

The General and his young protégé exchanged a look of blank incomprehension. "What business?"

Rex's dark eyes flashed. "Not even you know, eh?" He stabbed at his food, idly reducing some sort of nutrient patty to unappetizing hash with the backside of his utensil. "We lost six hundred cadets. Some kinda freak defect, they say."

"Six hundred clones?" Ahsoka peeped, earning herself an admonitory frown.

Rex's jaw twitched. He was less genetically modified than his comrades – which made him more approachable, more relatable… and also, ironically, much closer to tone of the most bloodthirsty and coldhearted bounty hunters ever to walk the galaxy. "Six hundred of our little brothers. They incinerated the bodies. No honors or recognition for service. Had numbers but no names yet. We never got to induct 'em."

There was a sense of _loss, _ of violation of dignity, slinking its oily way through the Force.

"With respect, sir. It isn't right." Rex uttered these condemning words and then looked down, immediately regretting – or possibly confused by – his own emotive upheaval.

Anakin's fist clenched into a tight ball. "Six hundred men are dead and the Republic training facility disposed of them like _trash?"_

Ahsoka slid a cautious arm's length away. The rage emanating off her master was a volcanic effluvia. Anything even remotely skirting on slavery – on the ownership of sentient beings – set Anakin off like a canister of pressurized tibanna explosive. "Skyguy," she soothed.

He snarled his response without looking at her, without acknowledging the disrespectful moniker. "No, I will not calm down, _Ahsoka._ Somebody is gonna hear about this."

Rex's hard-angled face softened with something verging on gratitude. "I appreciate your solidarity with the men, General. But we don't expect you to stick your neck out on our account."

"I'll do what I kriffing want, Rex. I'm gonna ask some uncomfortable questions. I know the Chancellor personally."

The soldier nodded grimly, and took a deep swig of his caff. "Yes, sir." He spared a wink at Ahsoka. "You too, young 'un."

Anakin reached across the gleaming tabletop and patted the clone's shoulder. "Take care Rex." He stood, summoning Ahsoka to his side with a sharp look.

The Togruta padawan hurried after him as they threaded their way between the rows of subdued diners, and out the exit.

"The Council is going to get an earful about this," he warned her, as they slipped inside the pedestrian swift tube connecting the Grand Army barracks to the outer transport hub.

She shifted edgily in place. "Master, how do we even know the Council is involved. Aren't you-"

He snorted. "They _know_ about it, believe me Rex and the boys have their own internal information network – but if the tragedy happened in a training facility, then the High Council and the Security Committee received notification. Freak defects don't just _happen_ on that scale – this is sabotage or biowarfare. And burning those bodies was a cover-up."

"Maybe it's necessary- for security, or intelligence reasons...?" she offered, not quite comfortable being at such confined close quarters with Skyguy in _this _kind of mood.

"Lots of things are necessary, but this is kriffing _boshuda, _Snips. I'm going to raise a ruckus. " he folded his arms across his chest in a posture that strongly echoed Master Kenobi's favorite thoughtful _asana._ "Maybe Obi-Wan'll agree to help. He hates the whole Kamino racket as much as I do."

Which struck a chord in Ahsoka's memory. She brightened visibly, "Especially now that he's _on_ the Council!"

Anakin froze in place. "What?"

_Uh-oh._ She bit her lip, suddenly aware that she had delivered a nasty shock to her imperturbable mentor. "Um… it was in the Temple public announcements… I checked my datapad earlier…" Her eyes dropped to the scuffed decking between their boots. "I assumed he told you already, Master."

Mental shields slammed into place between them, encasing Anakin's thoughts in an inviolable wall of ice. "He deserves the honor," came the tightly controlled reply.

Ahsoka had never been more relieved to attain the freedom offered by the tawdry military-grade docking pad, and the welcome noise of droid porters and milling personnel. "I'll find my own way back," she offered, and was dismissed by a single terse nod.

But she could still feel Anakin's smoldering stare burning a hole between her shoulder blades as she jogged across the tarmac.


	11. Chapter 11

**Armistice**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

At least Palpatine always made time for him.

Anakin had to wait less than ten minutes in the Chancellor's opulent foyer before Mas Amedda forcibly ousted the pompous delegate currently domineering Palpatine's precious time, and waved the unannounced Jedi visitor inside. He nodded his thanks – curtly, for he and Amedda were not on _talking_ terms – and slipped into the one refuge outside Padme's apartment where he might rely on finding unconditional acceptance and understanding.

Oh, and _honesty._ Palpatine, shrewd leader and lofty figurehead though he was, had evolved from avuncular acquaintance to cherished mentor in the last few years, replacing in some degree the guidance that Anakin had once been forced to eke out from the miserly coffers of the Order.

A small part of him admitted that this was, perhaps, an exaggeration. Obi-Wan had been _far more_ than stern instructor, especially in those early days when Shmi's memory haunted her son's every step. Geonosis had been a crisis point, it was true… but somehow they had moved past that and hammered their battered master and padawan relationship into a bright and brilliant friendship of equals, a thing thrice forged in the furnace of war, beaten fine on the anvil of hardship and shared loss.

But _now…_ well. Apparently Obi-Wan had grown too high and mighty to bother telling lowly Anakin anything of importance.

Unlike Palpatine, who took him in to his confidence without hesitation, without any stain of deceit or manipulation or hesitance born of neurotic denial. "Ah, my dear boy, do come in… you seem a bit out of sorts. Not bad news, I hope?"

He paced back and forth across the lush crimson carpet, glad that his personal confessor was always available to listen. "Not exactly. It's hard to explain. I heard about the debacle on Deodar," he spat out, throwing the words out more bitterly than he intended, a harsh siege against the walls of his audience's practiced calm.

The Chancellor spread his hands and sighed. "Ah, alas. Naturally I have appointed the Security Committee to look into the matter. I daresay the Jedi Council will be asked to make a _classified_ investigation."

"First I've heard about it," the young Jedi growled.

Palpatine exuded a sense of shock and outrage, though he hid it well. Anakin could read him like a holobook, however, and was gratified by the secret upsurge of ire on his behalf. "Ah.. I see. I wish they would entrust you with more.. but never mind. If it were up to me, of course.."

Tantalizing as these tidbits of Palpatine's inner thoughts were, Anakin barreled onward. "Why were the bodies destroyed without funeral observance? My troops are upset – not that they would ever dream of sedition, but the gesture _hurts,_ Chancellor. It's not right."

The supreme leader of the Republic turned his back, and gazed out the sloping panoramic window at Coruscant's endless sprawl. "There are so many, many administrative functions over which I have no control, Anakin…." An expressive sigh. "If we possessed a more centralized government, of course, such thoughtless protocols could be reworked in a more copacetic direction. But, alas.."

Anakin clenched his mechno hand into a fist. They were embroiled in everlasting civil war, and still the Republic could not see that true leadership – strong, wise, powerful leadership – was its only hope of survival, much less victory? "I want to be on the team that is sent out there," he blurted. He felt a personal investment in this affair, a need to _fix it_ himself.

Palpatine coughed delicately. "But surely you needn't worry about that anymore? I mean, your dear friend Master Kenobi is now in a position to, ah… how shall we say? Pull a few strings on your behalf."

A frigid certainty clamped about the younger mans spine. "Huh," he snorted. "You don't know Obi-Wan the way I do… He would _never_ abuse his power to promote anyone's personal agenda." Not even Anakin's, which rankled. On the other hand, if he ever did bend the rules to accommodate some un-Jedi-like preference, would Anakin truly be pleased? Or would he be… disappointed?

"I don't consider the use of power to promote good causes and the right people an _abuse,"_ Palpatine gently countered. "But I am not a Jedi."

"You are too humble, Chancellor. You are as good a man as any Jedi I have known." Maybe even Obi-Wan. But Anakin wasn't feeling balanced enough to really dwell on the comparison.

A self-deprecating chuckle and a wave. "I'll see whether I can exert leverage from my end. I _do_ have some influence over the Security Committee… and I should rest easier knowing that this assignment was in your capable hands."

"Thank you, Chancellor."

* * *

He nearly caused two accidents flying back to the Temple precinct at a speed well past the legal limit – not that it was _his_ fault the reckless barves in the free-fly passenger pool lane never bothered to check their rear sensors.

Guiding the light air car with one hand, he pinged Obi-Wan via comlink several times, and was rewarded with a _not available_ signal.

"Kriff it." Since when was his former master too exalted to respond to a direct communication? That was Anakin's job – usually he deactivated his 'link when he visited Padme, or set the positioning beacon to broadcast false coordinates. It never hurt to be meticulous. But Obi-Wan was scrupulous to a fault, and always answered, probably out of engrained habit – he had spent ten years chasing after and brooding over his padawan like an overprotective mother colwar, after all. The locator – a convenient wartime feature indispensable on a battlefield – registered a position well inside the Temple precinct.

Hopefully not the healers' ward _again, _because the more Anakin thought about it the more he decided that the best way for them to settle this issue was in a private senior level practice salle. One with a high ceiling and no observation balcony. He sped up a bit, whizzing headlong past the streams of law-abiding commuters above and below.

First he was going to kill Obi-Wan for not talking to him, and then he was going to make him talk.

This initiative firmly resolved upon in his mind, he hurtled back home in a mood of grimly pleased anticipation.


	12. Chapter 12

**Armistice**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

The south tower turbolift carriage lurched gently as it settled at the spire's base, a subtle shifting of kinetic planes that never failed to remind him of a poorly executed hyperspace reversion. Obi-Wan rubbed at a dully aching temple and waved a hand at the doors – _frivolous,_ he automatically chided himself – and stepped out into the top level mezzanine concourse intersection, drawing in a deep centering breath.

He had to confess to a slight feeling of disorientation, after having spent the night previous in solitary vigil, most the morning prostrate on his face during the traditional _long-form_ investiture ceremony (when had Master Yoda developed such a dry and ironic sense of humor?), and the greater part of the day thereafter in Council, the Force thrumming in consonant approval even as some other part of him struggled to grasp at the _reality_ of his new rank and duty.

Force, he needed a good work-out. He changed direction and headed for the senior dojo, habitually and eagerly reaching through the plenum to locate Anakin, only to discover that his preferred sparring partner was already obligingly present in the salles. His pace quickened, headache dissipating a little in the flush of happy anticipation that was truly, were he to honestly name it, an_ unbecoming lust for savage combat._

So Qui-Gon had always teased, generally after issuing a flamboyant lesson in saber mastery himself. There was always much to learn, and Master or not, vices to be uprooted. That flash of pleasure in the midst of battle – not in destruction, not in conflict _per se,_ but in the pure glorious ecstasy of the Force singing within – was perhaps the last vestige of his restless spirit, the ember of youthful fire that would not be quenched. All Jedi were trained in saber forms from an early age and integrated the soul-deep lessons of the martial disciplines into the fabric of their lives, but he _loved_ it. Without remorse.

Besides, he had to keep up with Anakin, didn't he?

He found the young Knight alone in one of the older practice rooms, high ceiling bearing its fair share of scorch marks, no distracting observation balcony marring its walls. Obi-Wan grinned a little at the cozy space. Anakin was presently engaged in battling three remotes, left-handed and blindfolded. It was an efficient if not spectacular sort of warm-up, the older man reflected, stripping down to undertunic and flipping his own weapon's hilt over in his palm two of three times, relishing the perfect heft of it. A slightly _cold_ flicker of acknowledgment in the Force signaled that his presence had been duly registered, and that he was_ welcome – _though he could sense an odd undercurrent of resentment in the implied invitation, too.

He watched impatiently for a few more minutes and then decided to end his former Padawan's impromptu performance. A sharp motion from his corner of the room attracted the notice of the nearest remote; it let off a few accurate but totally predictable blasts at him, which he deflected straight at Anakin. The target of this friendly abuse leapt straight over the rebound attack, felled one of the droids with a vicious downward strike, and landed rolling beneath the concerted assault of the remaining two. Obi-Wan took the opportunity to seize the floating spheres with the Force, knocking their proverbial heads together hard enough to deactivate both. They fell clattering to the floorboards.

"Hey," Anakin groused, whipping off the white cloth obscuring his eyes. "When did _you_ learn to be so rude?"

The Jedi master bowed. "The partnership is right when the student teaches the master."

"Ha." The younger man crossed his arms. "Nice of you to show up. I was starting to think you were too vaping elevated to slum it with me any more."

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed as he caught that trace of smoldering … _something _again. "Anakin, for the love of –" He sighed, reining in his own frayed temper. One of them had better remain congenial and calm. "What in the blazes do you mean?" Well, halfway calm.

The young Jedi's blue eyes burned with characteristic intensity, shadowed by thunderously lowered brows. The scarline left on his face by an encounter with Asajj Ventress stood out bright red over one eye. "You know what I mean."

"As flattering as the imputation of omniscience is, Anakin, I do not."

"Really. Surprised a _choobazzi_ Council member can't sort out the basics."

Ah. Realization and pique flared in equal measure. For stars' _sake._ "Anakin –"

"Don't use that _now Padawan_ tone of voice on me, either! It would be nice to have heard the news from you personally, instead of from my own apprentice."

Obi-Wan ground his teeth. Guilt – unbidden, but suddenly present- blunted the edge of his trenchant rebuttal. He released a harsh breath. There were so _many_ things wrong with Anakin's point of view – so many glaring failures in his training … and maybe a seed of irksome truth, as well.

"Okay," the hot-headed Knight growled. "If you won't talk to me, then talk to my 'saber."

"Fine." _I should walk away._

Anakin glared at him. _Walk away and you confirm everything I just said. _

"Jedi do not use _the dojo _to settle personal disputes," Obi-Wan reminded him.

The authoritative pronouncement, even shorn of the subsequent expository lecture, still rankled. "Yeah? Then we're not Jedi, are we, Obi-Wan? I guess we're just _friends._ You know: people who kriffing _talk_ to one another."

Obi-Wan let his gaze slide sideways, irritation simmering beneath his cool façade. Anakin was his former student, his dear friend, his brother in arms. Why in the name of the Force did that need to encompass incessant blathering about _inconsequential_ matters, such as Obi-Wan's state of health (perfectly fine as always, thank you) or petty details such as rank and appointment? Everything that truly mattered lay between them openly, without being said.

"Okay, I'll take that as a challenge."

Two blades leapt back to life. They saluted, began the customary casual prowling circuit. "Anakin," Obi-Wan tried once more.

"I'm not _talking_ to you right now," his opponent snarled, launching a blistering offensive.

And that was a relief, because he would much prefer to engage in all-out combative savagery anyhow.

They fell to with mutual enthusiasm and a total lack of restraint.


	13. Chapter 13

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 13**

Phia bit the end of her stylus – another bad habit she had not yet managed to expunge- and sighed over the dreary datascreen with its standard pharmaceutical taxonomy assignment. The imposition of _conventional _medical theory upon the Temple's apprentice healers always stuck in her maw – and made completing the pile of required classwork a more odious undertaking than any other.

She entered a few tentative answers on the exam form and frowned over the results. The Force remained unhelpfully silent, neither confirming or denying her barely-informed guesses. She checked the chrono again, and released yet another sigh. Almost sunset, which meant that her _night shift _in the ward was about to begin.

And she had forgotten to attend evening meal.

She threw her cloak on and hurried out of the Archives study carrel, hastening down the main aisle and into the adjoining hall, wondering whether she might filch some tasteless but healthy provender form the nutritionist droid's stores in the Halls of Healing. A bland meal was better than none. She quickened her pace, all but jogging into the foyer, where she nearly barreled over Xao Chorian, a fellow apprentice only a year or two her senior.

Of course, to hear Xao tell it, he was a full ranking Jedi master already.

"You're late," he chastised his tardy colleague, raising one supercilious brow.

Xao had no bedside manner whatsoever. He would make a good surgeon. "It's not sunset yet!" Phia protested, Her hair knot fell down, a victim of her indignation, and she hastily righted it, shoving the supple pin into place with acerbic precision.

Her fellow padawan rolled his eyes. "Not for shift – did you not receive Master Che's message?" A meaningful pause in which he readily divined that the answer to this inquiry would be a resounding negative. "You're wanted in the Council chambers. Now."

Phia's mouth fell open. She emitted a small peep of distress and then fled, cursing the absent mindedness that had led to this embarrassing situation. She bounded up stairwells, and pelted down hallways, heading for the south spire turbolift. Stupid, stupid, stupid Pharm Theory homework.

It got in the way of _everything._

* * *

Twelve minutes later, the breathless apprentice healer arrived at the summit of the Council tower. Here a small antechamber was set outside the circular Council room itself. Vokara Che was patiently waiting outside the burnished interior doors, her hands folded into opposite sleeves and her lekku hanging serenely down her back. She surveyed the truant padawan with a severe expression and turned back to the doors.

Phia once more pulled her hair into a semblance of order and composed herself as she followed the Twi"lek healer into the chamber beyond. Here, the last rays of sunlight played on the domes ceiling and lingered as a dying warmth in the 'cycled air. Panoramic windows displayed the endless stretch of neon-limned metropolis below and all around. Several of the chairs in the wide semi-circle were empty; one or two occupied only by holoimages of their respective Council members. With her finely tuned healer's sensibilities, Phia could feel the collective mood of those present, even beneath mental shields. Worry, tension and stress were all latent in the gathered Jedi masters, as they had been since the war began, even in the hallowed Temple. For one with the gift, the constant thrum of anxiety was disquieting.

She made a surreptitious examination of each of those physically present. Master Yoda and Master Windu rebuffed her inquisitive mental touch without conscious effort, her presence sliding off their psyches like water over polished stone. Adi Gallia returned her prurience with a stern stare, discouraging further effort, while Master Piell only wiggled his ears in annoyance and reflexively slammed down iron walls about his mind, as though a gadfly had tickled him. And then –

-Master Kenobi! She had not noticed the newest member of the revered circle of elders. Curiosity raging – for did she not know him _well,_ from a certain point of view, after so many many visits to the Halls for excruciating migraines?- she made a discreet probe of his signature, only to be gently pushed away by an invisible hand. She flicked her eyes up at his face, and found a pair of raised eyebrows and a wryly amused smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. Phia immediately directed her gaze at the inlaid marble floor again.

"Master Vokara Che," Master Yoda began. "News has come to us of a crisis, one involving the Republic's clone troops. A healer's knowledge, it may require to resolve."

The senior healer's lekku twitched. "There is a great abundance of skilled medical staff within the Army's ranks," she protested.

"Force adept, this may require," the Grand Master cut across her. "Conventional medics, at a loss are. Available for mission, are you?"

"Our resources are spread painfully thin, Master," the Twi"lek replied. "I cannot in conscience abandon my post, even for a few days."

"We are aware of this," the blue hologram of Plo Koon replied from the room's margins. "We have no healers to spare from the front lines, either; can you recommend to us whom we might send to accompany the Jedi team investigating this affair? Hundreds, more likely thousands, or even ten-thousands of lives are at stake."

Headtails undulating now, Vokara Che took careful consideration. "Alas, Masters, it would be madness for me to leave the Temple. We are the last resort for many severe cases, and my staff is already reduced to four able padawans and the droids. And I have the… chronic and disabled to attend." Here she nodded gravely at Master Windu, and at eth vacant seat where once Depa Billaba had taken her place. A smber hush fell over the company.

"Know this we do," Yoda sighed, voice gravelly with resignation. "But ignored this situation cannot be. An eyewitness, skilled and trained, we need to send. Require one of your padawans, the Council does."

The senior healer tensed. "I .. felt as much," she admitted. One elegant blue hand rose to rest upon Phia's rigid shoulder. "Padawan Esoro will go in my place, and report back to me. I am sorry we cannot do more, Master."

A spiral of excitement and dread ascended Phia's spine. She swallowed, feeling the electric jolt travel slowly to her brain. Mission. Off-planet. Escorted by a Knight or Master…. So soon, so far from Coruscant, without her own teacher? Was there truly, truly nobody else to be sent?

"What say you, Padawan Esoro?" Yoda rasped.

Phiatalleika looked up, biting at her lower lip. Her gaze, riveted heretofore upon the wizened Grand Master, shifted slightly to his right. Master Kenobi did not exactly _smile_ at her… but the Force warmed ever so subtly, and she felt a flood of unfamiliar calm and resolve.

"I come to serve, Masters," she said, and her voice did not quaver. She made her deepest bow.


	14. Chapter 14

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 14**

Ahsoka Tano kept a respectful pace behind her master – not that Skyguy was finicky about protocol like that, but because the traditional padawan's position afforded her a more convenient vantage point for observation, and one from which the smile of enjoyment pulling at her lips could not be directly seen.

"So," Anakin inquired politely of his companion as they strode down the main hangar bay aisle toward the waiting transport on its extended docking pad, "Feeling sore?"

There was a flutter of amused indignation in the Force. Master Obi-Wan turned a sarcastic eye upon his former student. "From our sparring match, you mean?"

"That was a lot of exercise for someone of your advanced years, Master." The two of them strode down the echoing bay, side by side, cloaks skirling at their heels.

"Well, I _suppose…_ if you count exercising restraint."

Anakin rolled his eyes, pretending not to like the tired pun.

The requisitions droid was just shooing away the automated mech crew when they reached the platform. A warm ion-laden breeze whipped at the Jedi's cloaks. Ahsoka's skin goose-pimpled in the sudden temperature differential. "So we're meeting Senator Organa in orbit?"

Skyguy turned round, as though remembering she was there. "Yeah."

Wartime security measures were invasive; the luxury of a private conference aboard a bug-free vessel was something few could afford. She frowned, peering back into the cavernous hangar, the cool Temple interior behind them. "Aren't we waiting for someone?"

Anakin crossed his arms. "Yeah. We're taking an apprentice healer with us. To keep an eye on Master Kenobi."

His pert apprentice beamed. "Well, it's about time," she observed, skirting along the edge of disrespect. Skyguy's expression hardened, but Ahsoka knew exactly where the lines were drawn with her mentor's own former master. Better than Anakin did, maybe. Or maybe they were delineated differently for her – you never knew. She risked meeting Master Obi-Wan's gaze openly, and was rewarded with only a half-humorous, half-admonitory lift of his brows.

They had a tenuous understanding. _He_ understood how much pressure was upon her, padawan learner to the _Chosen One - _after all, he had occupied a sort of mirror-image position to hers all those years ago, and vocally blamed the few gray hairs coming in at his temples on the experience. _She _ understood… well, it was hard to say exactly what she understood about him, but when they had practiced the intricacies of Jar'Kai saber combat together – in those weeks after Lanteeb – it had felt as though perhaps, for an unspecified interim, she had filled a void, a hollow lacuna somewhere in his quite hidden recesses. To speculate further would be fruitless, and also a bit… disrespectful. But that amounted to some kind of connection, didn't it?

"Huh," Skyguy agreed, still scowling into the bay's shadowed interior, "Maybe she can keep him out of trouble."

Master Obi-Wan snorted audiby. "That would involve working precisely contrary to you, Anakin. I don't envy her the task… And believe me, I should-"

He cut himself short as the subject of this idle supposition emerged into view, hurrying along the polished deck in a flustered blur of pale healer's tunics, skewed cloak, and sable hair. She skidded to a halt before the three of them and executed a deep bow, long mane falling free of its knot and cascading over both shoulders.

"Please forgive my tardiness, Masters," she panted, hastily fixing the wayward hair back into a complex knot and skewering the twisted bun with a flexible wooden pin.

"Ahsoka," Skyguy said, waving a hand at the young healer, who looked vaguely familiar, "Meet Padawan Esoro."

The Togruta nodded, the polite greeting returned in kind.

"Phia," their newest colleague introduced herself, falling into place beside Ahsoka as they made their way up the waiting shuttle's ramp. "Are you," she whispered hesitantly, "Master _Skywalker's_ padawan? I've seen you before, in the Halls, I think."

They were of an age, roughly, Ahsoka guessed. It would be nice to have a proper _girl_ friend on this journey. Not that she harbored any unbecoming attachments or needs in such respect – but the rare occasion when she might socialize with someone… more like her… was always relished. Barriss Offee and she were fast friends; even she and Taria Damsin had sort of hit it off, difference in rank notwithstanding. Phia seemed a bit – well, scattered – but surely her company would provide welcome variety.

Especially when she was essentially tagging along as third wheel to _The Team._

She was startled to hear a soft giggle beside her, and recollected too late that healers were often extraordinarily perceptive. It was too late to shield the thought, so she owned it, casting a conspiratorial eye roll in her companion's direction. Phia smiled and tamed her somewhat exotic features into sobriety.

Anakin made a beeline for the cockpit, hard on Master Kenobi's heels. He paused in the hatchway. "Why don't you two padawans take a moment to get acquainted?" In other words, leave the Serious Discussion up front to the professionals.

Mindful of her audience, Ahsoka gave her montrals a sassy swing. "Okay, Master, we'll give you some privacy to have a Grown Up Talk."

Phia's eyes widened gratifyingly at the revelation that she, Ahsoka Tano, had the brass to offer cheek to the Hero With No Fear. Skyguy scowled darkly upon her, promising later retribution.

"No worries there," Master Obi-Wan's voice drifted back to them from the cockpit. "I've yet to enjoy that long-awaited event."

Caught between the need to impose discipline in the ranks and the need to counter the subtle barbs issuing from his superior officer, Anakin chose to address the greater threat. He skewered his apprentice with one last warning look and disappeared into the cockpit.

When the pressure panel had slid closed, Phia leaned across the passenger compartment's narrow aisle. "I would never _dare_ to speak in such a manner to Master Che!" she breathed, a kind of reverence in her voice.

Ahsoka settled back against the inset acceleration couch. "Neither would I," she admitted to her fellow padawan. "Master Skywalker is one thing – but Master Che…."

They giggled a little, the Force relaxing palpably between them. "This is my first official mission out of the Temple," Phia confided, raising a hand to anxiously tug her slipping hair knot tight again.

Ahsoka offered her a wide, encouraging smile. "You'll be fine….I mean, look who we're with." Which might not be such a consoling thought, to one who really _knew_ the Jedi in question.

But it sufficed to calm her newfound friend's nerves.

"Good point," Phiatalleika grinned back.


	15. Chapter 15

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 15**

Bail Organa, royal consort to the hereditary ruler of Alderaan, elected Senatorial representative of the same august system, and head of the Republic Wartime Security Commission, rose fluidly to his feet and executed a neat formal bow as his four Jedi guests filed into the _Tantive IV's_ newly outfitted diplomatic salon.

It was quite the entourage – he would have been flattered had the sheer number of the Order's emissaries not served as poignant reminder of the depth and scope of this present crisis.

"Senator Organa," Obi-Wan addressed him, signifying that this was a _formal_ occasion.

"Master Kenobi," he smoothly replied, encompassing the younger man on the Jedi master's right in his gracious nod of welcome. Anaki Skywalker he had met on a handful of other occasions. The young Jedi filled the small room, bulkhead to bulkhead, as though the confined space would barely contain him. Bail offered a politely inquiring smile at the two figures behind the vaunted heroes: a fantastically patterned and attired Togruta – most decidedly, almost _aggressively_ female – and another young woman of the same age, this one as retiring and mild as her exotic companion was… noticeable.

"Padawan Tano?" he guessed, addressing the Togruta first.

She cut him an elegant bow, silpa bead ornament dangling beside her montrals.

Obi-Wan made the remaining introduction. "Senator, may I present Padawan Phiatalleika Esoro? She will be serving as medical expert during the investigation."

Bail knew better than to lift his eyebrows. There were, of course, Kaminoan and Republic civilian medics already involved – but the Order had its prerogatives, even now… and he had unlearned much of his prior suspicion and ignorance concerning their ways.

"I thank you all for meeting me here, in this unconventional setting."

Anakin Skywalker's blue eyes flitted up to the ceiling panels, around the cozy interior of the conference room, brows beetling. "With respect, are you sure this ship is _secure?"_

They sat. Bail smoothed his trousers' perfect crease and waited until Skywalker had grudgingly followed his cue, glancing once sideways at Obi-Wan before reluctantly settling into a chair himself.

"As head of the Security Committee, it would be highly inappropriate for me to exempt myself from the mandated informational protection measures," Organa evenly informed him, lip curling. He spread his hands upon the polished tabletop. "I had this ship fully wired for complete centralized surveillance, like every ship in the legislative and military register."

Skywalker didn't look impressed.

"…And then had it de-bugged by a tech team from a neutral system which shall remain unnamed."

That did the trick. Skywalker relaxed, casting a significant but indecipherable glance at Obi-Wan again. Bail snorted softly to himself, wondering what kind of telepathic comm chatter was passing between the two Jedi. He noticed that the two young women took up attentive positions in their own chairs, both looking eager for action or gossip, both watching their elders with wide eyes.

"So." The Alderaaninan prince took the reins, because he was Jedi-wise enough by now to see when he was expected to take the initiative. "This situation on Deodar has the Kaminoans in an uproar. They're upset by it, and at the same time they don't want Republic interference."

"So we're unwelcome guests," Skywalker summed up.

Bail inclined his head. "The Kaminoans are seldom outright hostile."

"So long as one has good manners and deep pockets," Obi-Wan finished, dryly. "Both of which desirable assets we reputedly possess, Anakin." A mild edge to this statement, one that provoked a small sarcastic twitch in the younger man's mouth.

The Jedi master smoothly continued. "I conclude that they don't have the defect under control, don't know precisely what caused it, and are afraid public knowledge will severely impact their profits."

"Exactly." Bail leaned back. "Needless to say, the Republic shares their concerns, for different reasons."

"What are you not telling us?" Skywalker demanded, cutting through the diplomatic niceties like a bantha lumbering through a flimsy barrier.

The Senator flinched. Not much got past the dark-haired youth. "What I .. officially.. have never told you is this: the Service Corps had dispatched a team of research assistants to the main production facility on Kamino. One of them fled the scene shortly after the first outbreak on Deodar."

Obi-Wan sat forward, features calm as ever, but a slight furrow appearing between his brows. "One of them… who was Force sensitive?"

Bail nodded, ruefully. "One of your, ah, Temple rejects. Forgive my bluntness."

The carefully calculated statement sent a palpable frisson through the Jedi cohort. All three younger members immediately looked to Obi-Wan to gauge his reaction.

There wasn't much of one, at least to an outsider's perception. "I see," the Jedi master said. "That is suggestive."

"And delicate," Bail agreed, not daring to look at Skywalker or his bold apprentice. "It will require a _light touch."_ Thank the stars the Council had seen fit to send their best negotiator on this assignment. Perhaps old Yoda guessed more than he let on.

"We can do light touch," the younger Knight replied, breezily.

"Yes," Obi-Wan concurred, stroking his beard, "We'll do our best not to end _this_ mission in a massive conflagration. Although…," he added, a slow smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Organa held up a hand. " - You don't make guarantees. I know." He shook his head half amused, half somber.

"Besides that, is there anything else the official briefing materials failed to mention?" Skywalker inquired, the hint of a growl undergirding his tone.

The boy – young man – had a point. Information was more and more tightly controlled, intelligence parceled out in miserly fractions to those deemed worthy. The Seps needn't do anything at all to further their war effort when suspicion and secrecy had extended so far into the heart of thier foes. "To my best knowledge, no," he answered, gravely. "My best knowledge," he repeated. "I hold no delusions of omniscience."

Obi-Wan nodded. There would, inevitably, be a nasty surprise or two ahead. "In that case we ought to be off. Does the training facility at Deodar know of our arrival?"

"Not yet."

The Jedi stood, in one fluid motion. "Then let's delay any notification until our ship reverts from hyperspace inside the system," the Jedi Master decided. "I hate to keep anyone waiting on tenterhooks."

Ahsoka Tano's brightly striped face broke into a sly smile. Phiatalleika Esoro's dark eyes widened further. Skywalker merely shrugged.

"We _could_ just drop by unannounced."

Obi-Wan wagged an admonitory finger at his friend. "Manners, manners."

"I'll be …available… for the next few days," Bail offered. "I'm officially taking a cruise back to Alderaan to deal with some internal affairs of state. Breha and I will be in orbit, aboard this vessel, should you require to make a secure transmission."

"Understood."

He was offered four extremely graceful and formal bows, a quadruple benedictin and dismissal. It was with a mixed feeling of confidence and dread that he watched the Jedi team depart, on route to the mysterious early education center on Deodar. Organa had not rested easy in his bed since the day he had approved use of the clone army... and with every passing day, month, year, that buyer's remorse grew more acute. He sighed, and flung his cape over one shoulder, and went to the forward cockpit to confer with his private pilot.

May the Force be with them, he privately thought.


	16. Chapter 16

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 16**

"I already set the nav-comp," Master Skywalker announced so soon as they had reboarded their shuttle. "We'll throw any potential trackers off with an unconventional route. It's gonna be a bit longer than ususal – Greivous is occupying the far end of the Hygerrian, and I don't trust those Federation lanes."

The intricacies of hyperspace navigation, much less wartime tactical itineraries, were far outside Phia's scope of practice. She listened politely, belly twisting into knots at the mere thought of journeying so _far _ from home and the Temple.

"Whatever you think will work," Master Kenobi said, touching the other man's arm. He meant it, Phia could tell. They trusted each other implicitly, underneath the incessant banter and teasing. Anyone could _feel _it. "But if it's to be a long trip, I suggest we take the piloting duties in shifts. We'll make sure a senior member of the team is present in the cockpit at all times," he reassured the nervous apprentice healer.

She nodded, relieved – or maybe intimidated.

"Anakin, why don't you and Ahsoka take the first shift?"

"Fine," Master Skywalker said, glowering down at his padawan. "I'd like a _word _ with Snips, anyway."

_Snips? _The nickname sounded… sassy. Improper. Rather like master and padawan themselves. Phia made sure to keep her gaze focused on the interlocking deck plates.

"I only wish it would be _a_ word," the young Togruta drawled, leading the way perkily through the forward hatch. Phia tensed, but no explosion followed, so she assumed this sort of cheek was permissible. For Ahsoka, that it. She would never _dare_ to speak to any senior Jedi-

"Phia."

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Master Kenobi touched her shoulder. She covered her reaction by adjusting her hair knot again.

He smiled down at her. "Braids are much more efficient, out in the field," he suggested. "As one or two friends of mine have told me."

"Oh." She didn't know what to say to that. "I, um –"

He knelt down upon the small passenger compartment deck, clearly preparatory to meditation. Phia, at loose ends, followed suit. "I know some of the people in Service Corps," she blurted, the thought that had been ricocheting about her mind ever since the conference with Bail Organa finally finding as escape path via her mouth. She blushed, ashamed at having spoken without first being addressed. But Master Kenobi was like that: he invited confidence without seeming to do anything at all.

"I was wondering what had you so agitated. Do you know something that might help us?"

The young Jedi shrugged, timid again. "Not really. I know – well, a lot of them _really_ don't approve of the war. Pacifists."

He nodded. "That makes sense." A hesitation, in which she felt his mental touch skimming over her shields – not like a healer. More like… well, like a nerf-tamer. Soothing. Coaxing. "It's not a disrespectable position, Padawan."

"Yes, Master." She hadn't known what to say. All the senior ranking members of the Order were Generals in the Army, after all… warriors. Phia did not carry the lightsaber, being sworn to the healing arts. She didn't wish to step on his toes.

Master Kenobi raised a hand and rubbed at his chin, thoughtfully. "I wonder," he mused.

But Phia had other concerns on her mind, and since formal protocol seemed to be relaxed, she thought she had better maximize the opportunity "Master?"

He raised both eyebrows, waiting.

"The Kaminoans are concerned about our involvement? With hundreds of lives wasted, and more threatened, I do not see why they would not welcome any form of assistance at all. Why refuse help that could help save thousands?"

Master Kenobi favored her with a very wry look. "I think you will find, Padawan, that the Kaminoans do not look upon life in the same way we do- especially not the lives of the clones they … produce. The cloners have from the very outset of this war been rather secretive about their methods and maturation techniques. If this outbreak of disease reflects a flaw in their genetic engineering, they will certainly not make a public announcement to the effect."

An appalling notion presented itself to Phia's mind. "You don't mean…"

"Well. They wouldn't want to issue a refund on faulty merchandise," Master Kenobi said grimly. "And the discovery of a weakness in their product might be bad for business on other fronts. The Republic is not their _only_ source of revenue, though certainly the largest for the time being."

"How can they be so heartless?" Pia demanded. "Surely such disdain for the sanctity of life is worse than even what slavers do! They are vile and evil!"

That almost made the Jedi master laugh. "Oh, I don't know. Compared to some of our Separatist friends – or their esteemed patrons – the Kaminoans are positively warm and compassionate. I'd much rather deal with them than many others I could name."

Phia blushed; she was naïve about much of what the war entailed. She dealt only with the wounded and suffering Jedi who limped or were carried home from the fronts… she had never before imagined how weary and jaded one's spirit might become, forever fighting and struggling with such immense malice on every side. Was it possible to see such calculating selfishness as he described as a mere welcome relief form vicious, murderous cruelty? She studied the Jedi master carefully, making a tacit diagnostic examination of her own. But his Force signature didn't have that hard, inflexible quality that bone-deep cynicism engendered. Not at all. He was something… different.

When he scrutiny caused him to narrow his eyes, Phia hastily changed the topic, remembering something her fellow apprentice Xao Chorian and she had debated only a week earlier. "Master," she queried eagerly, "Is it true that you held off three entire centurions of droids on Devaron, single-handedly?"

"Where did you hear that?" he asked, eyes wary.

Phia shrugged and pulled at her bun. "You know what they say: rumor flies faster than a class three hyperdrive."

"Especially among idle padawans, as I recall."

"Is it true?" Phia repeated, undeterred. She had already figured out that his bark was far worse than his bite – and besides, she and Xao had something in the nature of a private wager resting on the point.

"No, of course it isn't true. The fact of the matter is, I had Master Skywalker with me the entire time and there were only two centurions of droids, not counting the battle tanks. You shouldn't believe all that you hear, particularly when it reaches you in the form of gossip."

Phia decided not to reveal that it had been Master Damsin who had made mention of the feat first. "Yes, Master," she replied demurely, with a large inner smile. Xao would be irked to hear the result of her bold inquiry.

"Perhaps we should get one other thing settled between us, Phiatalleika," Master Kenobi continued, holding her gaze. "For the duration of this mission, you are working as a member of this team, a partner in the investigation, your relative inexperience notwithstanding. Just as you work with Master Che in the Halls. So there is to be absolutely no _hero worship. _Understood?"

"Oh dear," Phia spluttered, embarrassed. "Yes, Master, I understand. But it's just – you're a Council member and a General and I'm only an apprentice healer – I mean – and, and after Lanteeb –"

He looked away for a moment. "Lanteeb. Yes. Let me tell you something about Lanteeb, Padawan. While we were there, an entire village was poisoned by fallout from an ion storm, and by sickness caused by a dangerous mineral they were forced to mine without sufficient protection. Hundreds of people. We were trapped with them, and there was no one else to help, so I tried to do what I could. To heal them, I mean. It was… a trial. I have never done anything so difficult, or felt so ignorant and helpless. I assure you: I have the utmost respect for the healer's art."

_When it is not being applied to my own person._ The unspoken amendment echoed humorously in the Force between them, but the solemnity of his tone quickly banished the frivolous thought.

"In fact," he added quietly, "where healing is concerned, I may as well be _your_ student. And this mission very much requires your skills and knowledge."

Phia nodded, stunned. "I understand," she told him, gravely. "I will do everything in my power to use those skills and to be worthy of that trust."

Master Kenobi's answer was simple. "Thank you," he said.


	17. Chapter 17

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 17**

Deodar was a piece of poodoo nowhere world, in Anakin's humble opinion. He should know; as a native of Tatooine, he was a galactic-class connoisseur of chissk-pile locales. "Here we go," he grumbled as they dropped out of hyperspace into the system's far-flung gravity well. A sickly sun sputtered out bland light at the right of their viewport; a few laggardly satellites were visible within range. Deodar sat closer to the star, cozy within the mediocre embrace of its heat.

"How come the training center is so far from Kamino?" Snips wanted to know.

"How come Obi-Wan gave us first shift and decided the shifts should be four hours apart?" he countered. Someday she would learn.

His apprentice mulled it over, then scowled, hands going to her hips. "Hey! So we'd end up with the odd number of shifts. That's not fair."

"Life's not fair. Plus, he hates flying and I'm a nice guy."

"Whatever," Ahsoka smirked. "We all know you're a control freak, Master. He just knows you have to be in the pilot's seat or you'll wet your-"

Turbulence in the wake of a passing comet or ion current rattled the shuttle's hull, drowning out the rest of her impertinent reply.

"Deodar is a place the Seps wouldn't think to look," he answered the original question. "Strategy, Ahsoka. Plus there's lots of native nasties to train the cadets with. Cheaper'n droids."

The Togruta's white brows lowered further. "So they massacre animals as a training exercise?"

"Like I said, cheaper'n droids. And the Kaminoans own the whole place, so don't offend them by mentioning it."

"'I'm not the one whose big mouth gets us in trouble all the time," Snips asserted. "I can handle negotiations other than aggressive ones."

"Sure," Anakin absently remarked, studying the approach vector readout. Time to send their calling card in. He transmitted the pre-recorded message and then reached through the Force, sinking halfway into its omnipresent currents. Even at this distance he could sense the unrest on the planet below, the sense of dread hanging over its few inhabitants like a foul malaise. He thought he could even feel the distinct tang of _clone_ minds… they had their own unique timbre, one to which he was highly attuned. All was not well.

But they already knew that, didn't they?

Obi-Wan appeared behind him, silently, exchanging places with Ahsoka.

"I announced our presence," Anakin said tersely, checking the comm satt. "And all we got back was a confirmation relay and some landing coordinates."

"That's a warm welcome," Obi-Wan interpreted. He paused, rubbing at one temple. "I think there has been another… outbreak."

"More deaths, you mean?"

The older man nodded, grimly. "Recently." He looked a bit peaked.

"Master…" This was, of course, not the time. But Anakin was accustomed to being the more highly sensitive of the two – this pronouncement on his friend's part was disturbing. Could he _feel_ the death below so accurately? So clearly? "You don't look so good."

"It will pass."

Which was about the least encouraging thing Obi-Wan could have said, because the very fact that he was admitting to any degree of discomfort was anomalous enough to be alarming. "You've changed." It was a statement, not a question.

The Jedi master grimaced. "So it would seem." He exhaled slowly. "I'm … well. Certain things strike me more clearly now."

Like the Dark side. Anakin tilted his head, considering. That was weird. Scary, almost. What the _kriff_ had happened on Zigoola? That's where all this bantha farking poodoo had started. And Lanteeb hadn't helped any. "Look," he said, cautiously. "We've got a healer with us. Maybe you should….?"

"I'm fine," Obi-Wan said. Not exactly snappish, which would have been better, but tightly enough to reassure Anakin. Okay. He could back off for now. He'd pried an actual admission out of the man. You had to know when to rest on your laurels.

"Tell you what," he said, deftly changing subjects. They both understood that this was a tactical maneuver. "You take Phia and handle the lab and admin side of this… Snips and I will try to get the troops' angle."

"You think the cadets will have useful information?"

Anakin shrugged. "You always told me it was important to consider _all_ the different perspectives. I just wonder how they see it."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Agreed. They have an informal community of their own… I'm sure it coalesces far before they are shipped to GAR barracks."

"I spoke With Rex and the men before we left. They told me about this before the Council meeting, actually."

"Oh?" That had Obi-Wan's attention.

"Yeah. The clones have their own intelligence network. They're pretty upset. If this doesn't get resolved fast – well, Kaminoan profit margins won't be the only problem."

"You're suggesting a rebellion in the ranks? That's impossible, Anakin. You know how thorough the docility conditioning is. We've seen it – we've lamented it – but even a tragedy on this scale can't break through it."

"I'm telling you," Anakin insisted. "This is different. It's their own brothers. It hits 'em in the gut. I don't think we know _everything _ about the clones… and look who their original was."

"Yes. There is that." Jango Fett had been a strong minded man. A Mandalorian by breeding. Could you really – truly – eradicate the bonr deep tribalism of his people? What if it was genetically inherent, like some folks thought?

What if it wasn't? What if there was an _immaterial _ sideto the equation…. ? There always was. That's what the Jedi believed. They were staking a whole lot on the idea that human souls could be _totally _ conditioned. It was a dangerous gamble.

"This entire war is a dangerous gamble," Obi-Wan said, reading his thoughts.

They skimmed along toward the steadily growing speck of Deodar 4, and then began a bumpy atmospheric descent. "Stinking pressure differentials," Anakin grumbled, navigating them down through the messy upper layers. Closer to the surface, they had a good view of the mostly extinct volcanic plains and grey oceanic expanses that made up a patternless medley of continents. The polar regions were greenish; he headed for the southern magnetic pole, easing his way along a longitude just past the terminator.

Obi-Wan stroked his beard and looked ashen.

"So what are we getting into here, Master?" the younger man asked. He could feel it himself, now. Something was very, very wrong here. Life was out of balance, spinning dizzily into the void. They slammed up mental shields in unison.

"I don't know…" Obi-Wan muttered, meeting his eyes. "But it's not good."

Understatement of the millennium, Anakin grimly thought.


	18. Chapter 18

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 18**

When he had first discovered the existence of the _officially _non-existent planet, Kamino had struck him as a narrow isthmus of breathable air sandwiched between oceanic abysses below and a perpetually stormy sky above. He had been drenched in the ten seconds it had taken him to sprint for his fighter's cockpit to the doors. Deodar would offer no such challenges, Obi-Wan dryly observed as they made a long, spiraling descent to the sprawling Republic secret training center on the world's polar continent. Greenery poked up amid rolling dunes of ash – what moisture there was seemed to concentrate at the planet's magnetic poles, some quirk of atmospherics. There was a kind of tundra spread about the low, grey buildings erected just this past year. Native avians and a few herds of foraging beasts appeared as scattered black specks in the otherwise abandoned landscape. The sky was clear, arid and cold and scoured of clouds for the time being.

Anakin brought them in for a dramatic and flashy landing in Bay Number Five, on the western side, not bothering with repulsors but instead cutting the thrusters, grappling with the manual yoke and whipping them about in a tight and excruciatingly accurate pirouette exactly upon the designated docking pad. They set down with a mild thump.

Obi-Wan massaged his sternum, where the obligatory crash harness bruise was already forming. He exhaled and bit back the obvious rejoinder. There was no point in upbraiding Anakin for his showy piloting style; in fact, he privately suspected that his own vehement disapproval was nothing but fuel to the fire.

The younger man swung about in the pilot's seat, grinning cockily. "Don't just make an entrance," he asserted. "Make a _statement."_

Obi-Wan pointed out the viewport at the handful of deck crew presently crouched behind some crash buffers on the far side of the hangar. "Oh, they got your message all right. _Take cover, Master Skywalker is at the helm."_

"Huh." A disdainful snort. "They're just rookies. Pay 'em no mind." And indeed, the young clones did seem to recover from the initial alarm quite readily; already they were hurrying back to their posts, dragging refueling hoses and magnetic docking clamps across the decks. "C'mon. Let's grab the girls and go."

They collected the two padawans on the way through the aft compartment, and managed to present a respectable picture of Jedi dignity when the Kaminoan delegation arrived through an interior door. Introductions having been exchanged, the entire praty set off down the interior corridor, heading into the complex's bowels. The buildings were recently constructed pre-fab designs, identical units conjoined in bland and unvarying pattern to form a massive barrack-like edifice.

An architecture eerily appropriate to the cloners who employed it, he thought, as an aside.

Nirra Vah, medical director of the facility, ducked beneath an open doorframe and ushered them into a bleak conference room. His skin seemed to gleam with its own interior light, an effect heightened by the utilitarian white garments favored by his species. "We are appreciative of the Jedi Council's offer of help in the investigation," he intoned, his voice oily and smooth like the surface of someone dark pond. He gestured for them to sit, and both Jedi and the various Kaminoan officers found places in the wide circle of scoop chairs. "But I assure you, as medical examiner and pathology expert for this facility, I have the matter well in hand."

Oh really? Obi-Wan caught Anakin's eye and then turned blandly to their host. "The more recent spate of deaths notwithstanding?' he inquired, politely.

Every Kaminoan in the room blanched, if that was possible. Phiatalleika Esoro was staring at him agog. The poor creature had never seen words deployed as a stealth weapon before… her education in _diplomacy _ began here. It was only to be hoped that the affair did not devolve into aggressive negotiations by the time they were done.

Nirra Vah made an odd chucking noise – the Kaminoan equivalent of nervous laughter – and shifted in his oblong chair. Every movement was the smooth tidal pulse of an ocean: gentle, implacable, cold. "I am astonished that intelligence of our latest negative results has reached the Republic's Security Committee… we are still in the process of formulating our reports.."

"We have our ways," Anakin cut in, the barest hint of a threat in his tone.

Not Obi-Wan's style, certainly… but he was learning to let Anakin have his share of the fun. And the brassy reminder of Jedi _abilities_ was perhaps a timely addition to the conversation.

The Kaminoan spread his elongated fingers over his knees. "I see. I shall, of course, share my results with your team."

"Good," the Jedi master replied, before his temperamental counterpart could employ further intimidation tactics – _power is a garnish, not the main course my young friend – "_We have brought our own medical expert. Perhaps she might examine the, ah, evidence in the wake of this latest crisis?"

Phia nodded at him slightly, signifying eager curiosity and a willingness to help. The young healer preferred a concrete task, some hands-on encounter with the tragedy, to this delicate, evasive dance.

"There is little to examine," Nirra Vah informed them, expressionlessly. "The fatal cases have already been disposed of."

"Disposed of?" Master Che's padawan squeaked, immediately coloring as she realized her violation of protocol.

"Yes," the Kaminoan detachedly replied. "I took representative tissue samples, naturally. But the bodies have been incinerated. In such numbers, the demands of hygiene and storage make it both convenient and necessary to act quickly."

All four Jedi exchanged a swift glance. The demands of secrecy were also well served by such action as well. "I see," Obi-Wan observed, neutrally. "And funeral rites?"

The medical expert swiveled about, curiously, large opaque eyes slowly blinking. "The clones have some customs they observe, I believe. We have included a minimum of conditioned responses to death in our template, considering the purpose of these units… but I assure you there is no need for conventional rituals. The units are designed to be independent of specific social customs, and emotional attachments.. That is the whole point of employing a clone army, is it not?"

Anakin's mechno fist clenched visibly. Sensing their sudden entry into choppy waters, Obi-Wan steered them off the rocks. The cloner's cool, calculating abstraction from Life was not the focus of this mission – to be distracted by his attitude would be a mistake.

"Your people are very efficient," he answered. "Did these tissue samples yield any results?"

The tall creature drew his head back and gazed down upon them all from his superior height. "Standard analysis indicates only massive chain reaction cell death in the blood stream. A defect in the genetic coding, I fear."

"Their blood died?" Phia blinked. "Was it caleumia or an engineered synthvirus? Radiation exposure?"

"Neither," the Kaminoan snapped. "Our medical database is _better_ than state of the art."

Chastised, the padawan fell silent.

"We would like to speak with one of the cadets who is still alive, but afflicted," Obi-Wan told him, opting for the direct approach. "And a tour of the barracks and classrooms. Your training methods are most impressive."

The flattery smoothed over the worst of his audacity, but Nnirra Vah's small mouth still puckered dubiously. "If you truly think it is needful."

"We do." Anakin was positively glowering in his chair; it would be best of they could all…. move along now.

"Very well," their host reluctantly agreed. "Come along."

'


	19. Chapter 19

**Armistice**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

Skyguy stalked down the interior corridor like he owned the place, long legs eating up the white-tiled floor. Ahsoka practically had to jog to keep pace – a humiliating aspect of apprenticeship to her often irritable and always emphatically on-the-go master. She remembered her harried clan chaperone asserting that she, Ahsoka, would drive some future mentor into his or her grave with her excess of energy. That seemed unlikely to happen in this case – and she wondered whether the Council's choice to assign her without prior consultation to her current teacher had in fact been a sort of pre-emptive strike.

"What's the rush?" she growled at him as they hastened down the long passage toward the cadet dormitories.

He spared her a sidelong glance. "Well, I dunno, Snips." Sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "Maybe I kinda think a thousand deaths is cause for _swift action."_

Ooooh. "Sorry," she peeped. "I just meant-"

But that's when they reached the double doors barring this part of the huge complex from the more secure portion beyond. Anakin raised a hand and did something not nice to the double electro-lock's inner mechanism – there was some sparking and shorting on the exterior panel – and lo and behold, they were through into the clone cadets' private quarters.

It looked a lot like the GRA troop barracks, except most the clones in here were… well… younger. They were just Ahsoka's age, in point of fact. She found herself looking at Rex a hundred times over. A younger Rex, face not quite as chiseled, skin smoother, eyes a bit rounder, everything just slightly softer. And he wasn't quite as big as himself, nor as heavily muscled yet. But he was getting there. The interminable boot camp of these young men's existence must work miracles.

A bit like Jedi training, without all the meditation and philosophy.

They wore orange jumpsuits, for some reason, not unlike prison inmates. Reflexively, the Togruta padawan looked about for barricades or sentries. But of course, there were none.

Dozens and dozens of brown eyes glanced up as one when the two Jedi entered the sterile mess hall. One clone – identical outwardly, but somehow obviously distinguished in the sight of his brothers – stood up, spine rigid. "Officer on deck!" he shouted.

A unified screeching as chairs were pushed back. Two hundred simultaneous salutes greeted the newcomers.

"General, sir," the leader barked out, not making eye contact.

Anakin's piercing gaze swept over the assembly and then settled upon the squadron commnader, for that is clearly what the speaker was meant to be. "At ease," he said, deftly threading between the rows of benches and tables to a position directly across from the lead cadet. "Sit down, troper," he said. "I just wanted a word with you."

The nearest others fled, making room for the two Jedi.

"CT-8856213," the young Rex muttered. "Sir."

"Sit down," Skyguy urged him. Ahsoka smiled encouragingly, and was rewarded with the tiniest confused quirk of CT-whatsit's mouth.

Apparently Anakin's reputation or at least hologram had preceded him, for the youthful clone's amber colored eyes widened in recognition. "General Skywalker, sir?" he stammered, and then zipped up tight, obviously aware that he had violated protocol.

"Yeah," the Jedi in question responded. "And this is Commander Tano. I was hoping you would speak to me frankly."

The teenaged Rex blanched.

"That's an order," Anakin growled.

"Sir yessir."

"Look… do you mind if I call you Grub? I like people with names."

"Grub, sir?" the youth glanced down at his emptied tray."With respect sir, this barely qualifies as grub."

Ahsoka tugged on Anakin's sleeve. Grub was obviously a minimally modified version, one of the elite class units designed for high ranking officer status. After all, he had a sense of humor and the audacity to employ it in a superior officer's presence. She liked him already. Maybe if they could wangle his assignment, get him shipped out to the 501st… then Rex could –

"Ahsoka." Her hopes were dashed with that single admonitory word. _Right. Focus. We can't save everyone. We can't get attached._

"We're here to find out what happened to your brothers and to stop it from happening any more," Anakin announced, without preamble.

Grub kept his stoic composure, but a light glimmered in his dark eyes. "Thank you, sir. We've heard about you, sir. You have our confidence."

"They teach you about… me?" Anakin said, taken aback.

Grub looked embarrassed. "Not in the official program, sir. But the seniors – our brothers that help with field training – they tell us things. About the world out there."

"Then you know I take care of my men. And that means _all_ the men."

Ahsoka squirmed a bit. _We can't save everyone, remember, Master?_ But that was what made Skyguy so charismatic, so compelling as commander, teacher, friend. Nobody was exempt from his aggressive compassion. He would save the entire galaxy if he could . And if he couldn't – well, Ahsoka never stopped to think about that too much. "So what can you tell me about this sudden epidemic? And I don't mean the official version. We got that from the Kaminoans already."

Grub looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Well," he stalled for time.

"What happened to your brothers?" Anakin pushed. There was a bit of Force behind the question, too. Not enough to count as influence, maybe, but… Ahsoka squinted at him warily and received a blank stare in return. _Not now, Padawan._

"They got old. Too fast," Grub clarified. "They just turned into old men and shriveled away. Like their whole life passed in a few weeks."

"Growth acceleration," the Togruta whispered. "On a dangerous scale."

The confession semed to loosen Grub's tongue. He leaned forward, pouring out his confidence into the young outsider who had appeared from nowhere with an offer of help. "It's just not right, sir. They told us it was a genetic defect, but we're all the same, aren't we? Something's wrong. It's not fair – we all trained together – we're going to fight for the Republic. What's the point of living if you never get to see action? The great Jango said _life is given meaning by action. _My poor brothers never got a chance ot give their life meaning. It's not right."

Here the adolescent trooper lapsed into his equivalent of a pensive silence.

"Life is given meaning by _purpose_," Anakin said, quietly. "And compassion."

Ahsoka watched him wide-eyed. It was a rare mood that had her teacher channeling Master Obi-Wan in any way other than the customary snark. He was rattled to the core by this, that was for sure.

And who could blame him?


	20. Chapter 20

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 20**

Phiatalleika trotted along in Master Kenobi's wake, mentally composing a text-only transmission to Xao Chorion, something she could dash off when she had a moment alone at the shuttle's comsatt station.

_Dear Xao,_

_You will be happy to know that you have won the wager we made last month concerning the battle on Devaron. It is not true that Master Kenobi held off three legions of droids single-handedly; he said as much himself. There were only two legions plus battle tanks and he had Master Skywalker with him the entire time. _

That would make Xao's victory a pyrrhic one; the truth of the matter was nearly as impressive as the version Temple rumor propounded.

_I am actually working in close partnership with him at this very moment –_

But, no. That sounded far too much like boasting. What she was feeling was not braggadocio- it was awe.

_Master Kenobi told me that he tried to heal hundreds of people on Lanteeb. I already knew this; Vokara Che told me, after he and Master Damsin returned form that mission in such bad shape. Master Skywalker was with them, too, but he wasn't as badly compromised. Master Che said that the only Jedi in the Temple more reckless than Master Skywalker is Master Kenobi, and that his actions on Lanteeb could easily have resulted in his death._

There had been more than one healer who had perished on the front, trying to save lives. It was possible to overextend. Xao and she had discussed it many times.

_Do you remember how he was in the Halls with us all those days afterward, under Vokara Che's personal care? Reckless or not, he understands something of the healers' calling and path. To help so many people without any formal training is an astounding feat, don't you agree? It would take not only natural talent, but determination and compassion that I foolishly thought belonged only to those who follow our Path._

Xao could use some horizon expanding. Maybe she should include the wild speculation that had haunted her all these last weeks.

_Do you think perhaps that the different callings within the Force are not separate after all? Perhaps Master Kenobi could have been a great healer. And perhaps you or I could have been powerful warriors and diplomats._

She giggled at this last thought. Absurd. Though she had certainly been trained in hand to hand defensive combat and performed kata with a training weapon as a form of moving meditation, Phia did not carry a saber and would not know what to do with one beyond the rudimentary skills any youngling in the Temple possessed. As a healer, it was anathema for her to carry any weapon at all. As for diplomacy, she knew more about living bodies than the complex and corrupt body politic. And she was content to remain blissfully ignorant in that regard. Still, the thought was intriguing…

"Padawan?"

That brought her introspective distraction to an end. "I'm sorry, Master, my mind was wandering."

He favored her with a tiny smile. "So long as you don't misplace it along the way. We need all our wits about us here, I think."

Phia nodded, tugging her hair back into order. Nirra Vah strode ahead of them, his articulated limbs carrying him forward at an eerily smooth gait. When they reached the quiet extremity of a quarantined sick bay, he gestured at them to pass through a shimmering decontamination field. She followed behind the Jedi Master, shuddering as the energy rays whispered over clothing and skin, eliminating microbes and minute radiation particles.

The Kaminoan joined them on the other side. "We have sequestered the affected units here," he informed them. "Now that the syndrome has been identified via a predictable symptomatic pattern, we can start scheduling sterile elimination of defective products. I suggest you conduct your investigation quickly." His lanky figure crossed the brightly lit room and disappeared into an administrative cubicle on the far side, his silvery garment whispering against his thin legs.

Phia drew close to Master Kenobi, suddenly chilled. "Did he mean…?"

His face gave nothing away, but she thought his voice lacked its customary warmth. "Yes. There's nothing we can do at the moment; I'll speak to Senator Organa later."

"Evil," the young healer hissed between clenched teeth.

Master Kenobi sighed, his head bowed a little. "We have a job to do, Padawan."

And that was true, whatever her feelings about the Kaminoans and their vile disrespect for life. They split up, each seeking a clone to interview. Most looked terribly ill, features waxen and caved in, skin sallow and dehydrated, their eyes closed and chests heaving irregular breaths. Phia sought out one who seemed more alert than his brothers, and perched herself upon the edge of his narrow cot.

"Hey," the adolescent clone grunted, stirring out of an uneasy, drug induced slumber. "You're a Jedi, aren't you?"

She smiled, pulling the folds of her cloak about her shoulders. "My name is Phiatalleika Esoro. I would like to help you, if I may."

The clone smiled wanly. He had a nice smile, she thought. His features were angular, his skin golden, his face framed by close-cropped dark hair. His broad nose and high cheekbones stood out against sunken eyes, the bones too visible for someone of his youth, as though the connective tissues and fat beneath the surface were already decomposing. A faint line of soft stubble darkened his cheeks and made his fevered eyes stand out more brightly. "Help all you like," he said, morosely, "But I'm for the 'cinerator, aren't I?"

Phia struggled to suppress the pang of vibrant pity welling up within her. She likely would not be able to save him. Or any of his identical brothers here. Something deep in her belly twisted, a horrible sickening stone forming there beneath her ribs.

"There is always hope," she lied, blinking back unbidden tears.

"CT 545623," the dying cadet rasped.

"It's almost as unwieldy as my own name," Phia smiled through blearing moisture. "I go by Phia."

The young clone seemed amused. "My brothers call my Loop sometimes. Didn't know Jedi got nicknames too. What else you Jedi call each other? How bout him?" He waved a shaking hand vaguely in Master Kenobi's direction.

Phia placed a hand on Loop's forehead, exerting a gentle nurturing influence through the Force. Keep him talking, that was it. If he relaxed far enough to allow her in deeply… "Well," she chattered, "I wouldn't dare call him _anything._ But I know of one padawan whose master dubbed her Snips because she gives him so much lip. My friend Xao back in the Temple – we call him Zhao-tao sometimes. That's Twi'Lek for grumpy codger… Master Che gave him that name years ago, actually. We used to all call Master Bondara "Iron Fist"."

Loop chuckled a little, coughing weakly on the tail end. "We have a trainer called Iron Fist." He moaned, a weak remonstrance. "Ah… tell me more."

So she did, entertaining him with anecdotes about the Halls of Healing and the peculiarities of Jedi life, all the while pushing him closer and closer to the brink of the Force. At last, they gently plummeted over the edge together, into an open healing trance. She could feel his life trickling away like water between her grasping fingers, his spirit dissolving and slipping away into oblivion like smoke, like oily water.

When she broke the trance again with a painful start, Loop was gone and her fingers were twined through those of a corpse.

She reached forward and closed his eyes, headache pounding behind her own temples.


	21. Chapter 21

**Armistice**

**Scene 21**

Vokara Che's young apprentice was obviously distressed by her brief exposure to the affliction raging through the ranks of young cadets here on Deodar; Obi-Wan watched her carefully as she sat beside the bed of the unfortunate clone, even after the Kaminoan med staff had removed the body with all the brusque efficiency of zookeepers mucking out an enclosure.

"Padawan."

She followed him out into the adjacent corridor without protest –so unlike Anakin at that age – and without voicing any ethical or philosophical dubiety – so unlike _himself_ at that age, come to think of it – and kept her stoic silence until they had reached the relative sanctuary of a small empty office on the same level.

Phiatalleika Esoro, though Temple bred and trained, had certainly seen death before – grisly death. She had been there that night in the Halls when Taria had finally returned to the Force. The apprentice healer had waited, respectfully, just outside the door, flanked by a silent Vokara Che, as the peerlessly courageous woman had breathed her last words into his ear, a pained farewell and admonition of a deeply private nature, one which –

"Master?"

For stars' sake. It would be hard to say which of them was more liable to brooding. And _he _had no excuse. "Forgive me. Did you discover anything of significance?"

He had, without so much as trying. The moment they had entered the ward, pain had flared wildly behind his eyes, a sure warning that the Dark was close at hand, malevolently veiled.

The girl fiddled with her hair knot, eventually pulling the pin out and twisting it between slender fingers. Her mane fell in an ebony cascade down her back. "I – there is something besides illness here," she stammered. "I have treated non-Jedi before." A hasty assertion, one meant to reassure him that her judgment was not due to inexperience with xenomorphic bodies. "There was… something wrong with him. Inside him. His life…" She shaped her hands in the air, vainly seeking to express through mime what language could only fail to convey. "Something evil I don't understand. I don't know how to describe it, yet."

He nodded. "I sensed it too. But we will need more concrete information – an dI do not think our friend Nirra Vah intends to let us do too much snooping."

Phia's shy exterior melted away under the heat of principled indignation. "Vah is heartless!" she exclaimed, blushing a little, perhaps at the memory of what correction he had already issued in this regard. "I know these men were created for the war, I know they have no families or attachments. I know they do not mourn each other or, or their fate – but I find his attitude abominable!"

And so it was. But a decade of teaching ingrained certain habits, and the Socratic question was out his mouth before he could stop himself. "Oh? Some might say the clones are not unlike Jedi. Our customs are similar; we do not have attachments, nor families, we do not grieve those who return to the Force."

She skewered him with an all too perceptive look. Well. Jedi did not, _ideally_, grieve.

"We observe only the simplest funerary customs," he pushed on, deflecting the question before it could be asked, "and do not hold gross matter in honor above the luminous spirit. We strive for detachment regarding death; why should you find Vah's detachment so repulsive?"

"It's not detachment, Master. It's indifference." The healer snapped out her answer with all the simple self-assurance of youth and inexperience.

Ah, yes. Simple distinctions. How he longed for the days when he had been on the crusading forefront of such idealism, utterly stymied by Qui-Gon's seemingly obstinacy, his needlessly nuanced views, his half-humorous tolerance for his apprentice's passionate division of the galaxy into self-evident truths and falsehoods. Obi-Wan ran a hand over his beard, gazing out the narrow convex window. A military cruiser sat moored in the shipyard, disgorging the endless contents of its cargo bays: weapons, ammunition, crates of medical supplies… and everywhere, clone cadets in the bright orange uniform of the training center, others – older?- in the drab greys of the fleet, scuttling hither and thither like efficient ants. How many of them would be stricken down by the invisible killer before they saw action again?

And did it make a difference? One way or another, most of those here were indeed destined for destruction. Jedi saved lives – but not, in ages heretofore, so that they might be offered up on the altar of strife in such obscene proportions. The sun set slowly on the horizon, smearing Deodar's greenish sky with stark reds and glowing golds. An armada of low clouds scudded low, emissaries from the equatorial regions bringing news of an impending storm. He shook himself. Melancholy was _not_ a salutary habit of mind. Especially with Anakin so near at hand and liable to sense his unease –

"Master." This time Phia's voice was tense, imperious. Wryly, he noticed that hero worship had suddenly transmuted into _authority. _"You have a headache again!"

"A predictable effect of what we have here witnessed," he replied, with enough of a frown to discourage any further solicitousness. "If I need the aid of a healer, I promise you will be the first to know."

The delicately phrased avowal satisfied Phia's sense of duty – proof that the girl was born to nurture, not to negotiate. She subsided into a worried introspection, dark eyes tracing the outline of the same cruiser that had occupied his wandering attention a moment earlier. "How much will we tell Nirra Vah?" she inquired.

"That is the question. I don't think the 'Dark side of the Force' is a concept he will find particularly illumining. When he asks, you will explain to him in medical terms – _conventional, _ non-holistic terms, that is. I'm curious what his reaction might be."

The young healer deftly rebound her hair and thrust the pin back in place, smiling up at him with a knowing glint in her eye. He wondered briefly what part of his ever-evolving and absurdly embellished reputation he was currently confirming, but then pushed the thought aside. A bright beacon of fire was making its brash way up the hall.

"Here comes Master Skywalker," he informed his companion. "We can compare notes before we speak with the Director."


	22. Chapter 22

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 22**

"It could be something they're doing here at the training center."

Ahsoka had a habit of thinking aloud when Anakin was trying to think not-aloud. He could swear she did it on purpose.

"That would explain why the Director is being such a sneaky barve, covering up evidence, not giving us an exactly warm welcome," she pressed on, eagerly trotting down the corridor behind him. "It could be a Separatist infiltration. Maybe Dooku bought off Vah, is paying him to sabotage the ranks –"

"Snips." He halted, abruptly rounding on his chatty protégé. "Sabotage on _this_ scale isn't such a big deal. It's the threat of repeat incidents, this kind of loss at other locations, possible defect in the whole clone production line – _that's _a threat. Dooku's not stupid enough to try infiltrating a single compound like this."

Chastised, the little Togruta snapped her mouth shut and went back to thinking not-aloud, which suited her mentor just fine.

His conversation with the cadets had left him in a foul temper.

The thing was, clones were kinda like slaves. It was something he didn't like to contemplate too deeply. But people who were for all intents and purposes owned by the Republic – after all , they'd been _bought,_ and at a staggering price, too – and who had no say in their own life, and who had to obey orders whether they liked it or not… well, it made his blood boil. Personally he didn't see why voluntary recruits were such a bad idea. If the Senate was squeamish about bloodshed, then how did clones solve the dilemma? One hour on a battlefield .. one kriffing minute … and the _poodoo_ eaters would see that the troops bled as much as any of them. Probably more because the legislature was full of effete, bloodless nincompoops who wouldn't last a day even here in the Deodar cadet training camp.

"E'chuta," he grumbled, rounding the corner into the empty office nook where Obi-Wan was holding council with Padawan Esoro.

That got him a raised eyebrow. He could feel his own apprentice sniggering behind his back at the unspoken byplay. He put a warning shot across her snippy bows and then turned his glare on his former mentor. "_You_ look like hell."

The other eyebrow joined its mate. "We can't all be the hologenic Poster Boy of the Republic, Anakin."

Both girls were snickering now, vape it. Anakin favored his friend with a caustic glare and got the trademark Kenobi smirk in exchange. "So who's sharing results first?" he demanded, because it was their _duty _ to set a good example for Ahsoka. And the other padawan, the one that looked alarmingly _right_ standing there respectfully next to the Negotiator.

"Brains before beauty," Obi-Wan flippantly replied, completely ignoring the broad hint about setting precedent. He was like that, sometimes. And his headache was killing Anakin , too, now, so that was another black mark against the man. "Phia and I think this malaise is not of entirely physical origin."

Ahsoka sucked in a breath. Anakin could feel her unspoken thought. Yeah, just like that, Snips. Like bad juju, Dathomiri witch style, _Dark_ arts…. More kriffing Sith magic. It was all they needed, what with a galactic civil war on their hands. It would be nice if the Seps would just stick to one tactic – overwhelming military power, or else Dark side Force manipulation.

"Okay," he growled. "That's gonna sit real well with Vah."

"We'll explain it to him in layman's terms," Padawan Esoro said.

Oh, sure. Anakin didn't roll his eyes, though. He could be nice when he wanted. "Well, the cadets had some interesting gossip to share." He waited till all eyes were on him. "The dead clones were all batchers – you know, decanted on the same date. This new set, too. Looks like the problem may stem from Kamino, not here."

Obi-Wan stroked his beard, thoughtfully. "Batches, but not every unit produced within a certain time-frame. That points to targeted sabotage – or a weapon delivered non-systematically, after genetic integration. Hm."

This wasn't the time or place to mention Organa's other piece of intelligence – the news of an AWOL Service Corps staff member who had been present on Kamino in the last months before this epidemic outbreak.

"Of course," Obi-Wan added, "There is the possibility that this … damage… was effected five years ago, before the war began. We may be following a cold trail."

But Anakin had a crucial piece of the puzzle. "No," he answered, triumphantly. "According to the cadets I interviewed, the affected men were all recent supplementary rotation batchers." He elaborated for the sake of the younger members of the party. "Super growth acceleration; the Kam's had a half million extra half-developed embryos on hand on case the Republic ordered reinforcements beyond the initial commission. They've found ways to kick the growth process up a notch, mature 'em from infancy to adolescence within a year."

He could sense Obi-Wan's black humor coursing beneath the surface like some wicked sea predator, but some things were so blasphemous that even his dark wit would not rise to the bait. "That is… suggestive," was all the Jedi master said.

"Here comes trouble," Snips murmured, alerting them to the proximity of the training center's Director. The Kaminoan appeared in the open doorway a moment later, by which time they were all four composed into models of perfect Jedi serenity.

"Ah, good," the tall, silver-skinned creature intoned, folding his long fingers together before him. "I see you have completed your initial examination. I presume your investigation yielded similar results to my own?"

"Director Vah." Anakin took the lead, making the wretched bastard a short bow of respect, one he hoped conveyed only barest civility. "I believe our own medical expert would best be able to address that."

The Kaminoan flowed across the room and took up position in the single scoop chair behind the desk. "Please elaborate," he said, waving a patronizing hand at Phia.

The apprentice healer swallowed, and glanced sideways. Anakin knew what the tiny quirk of Obi-Wan's mouth meant – permission granted. What surprised him was the facility with which Phia interpreted that subtle signal, too.

Her chin came up, confidently. "The clone cadet I examined had… lost the will to live. His blood ran thick with death."

The Kaminoan specialist made a soft noise of impatience. "A poetic and spiritual concept," he snorted. "Nothing from which I can synthesize an antidote. Do you have any _measurable _ data?"

"No," the young Jedi admitted. "I am sorry if this frustrates you."

"Could you translate into simpler terms for Director Vah, perhaps?" Obi-Wan interposed, a glint of mischief sparking in the Force's depths. Anakin recognized that mood, too. Stirring the pot, so to speak.

Phia nodded. "The most approximate physico-mechanical description would be to say that his bloodstream acted as a matrix to absorb rather than distribute energy- as though its natural function had been reverse-polarized. Perhaps such a model will help your own researches?"

Nirra Vah's small mouth puckered. "I expected nothing more concrete," he sighed. "I thakn the Republic for its … assistance. If you will excuse me, I must return to our laboratory. If you formulate any _significant _ discoveries, please report to me without hesitation. I am sure we share the mutual goal of stopping this unfortunate defect from spreading further."

He rose and swept out, dismissing them like a group of errant underlings.

At Anakin's elbow, Snips whistled under her breath. "_That_ went well."

He smiled bleakly. "Yeah. We're par for the course so far."


	23. Chapter 23

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 23**

"Stay here," Anakin ordered, like his apprentice was the shipboard astromech. He was throwing his weight around again – probably because there was another padawan present. Like he _needed_ to intimidate anybody. Skyguy was a legend in his own right, among the Temple-bound junior ranks. Phiatallekia had barely peeped three words together in his presence, though she was chatty enough with Master Kenobi.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "We won't go out in the big scary thunderstorm, Master," she assured him, dripping honeyed sarcasm.

Rain pelted harshly against the thin walls of the empty officers' barracks the Kaminoans had designated for the Jedi's use. The mention of inclement conditions outside seemed to spark some healer-ish instinct in her companion, for Phia immediately straightened, hands on hips. "Master Kenobi," she started.

He held up a hand. "Anakin and I can handle a bit of sleet and hail, don't you think?"

Which had Skyguy grinning. "Depends who's piloting, Master," he quipped, smugly. He winked at the apprentice healer. "I'll watch his back, don't worry. We learned our lesson on Devaron. Master Obi-Wan and atmospheric pressure differentials don't mix."

The subject of this mockery folded his arms. " I dare say we'll make it across the courtyard in one piece – if you are able to punch a transmission through this mess, use Temple priority code three, not the standard military frequencies."

Phia's eyes widened at this testament of distrust, but Ahsoka pulled off a plausible imitation of jaded assurance. "Of course," she said, smoothly.

Skyguy shot her an arch look which she promptly ignored.

When the girls were alone again, she set about activating the compact com-satt array in the room's corner. "Let's see how bad this really is." Fiddling with machines was a habit she had inherited from Anakin – as though his nervous habits were contagious. Stoic affectation aside, she was disturbed by the direction their investigation had taken. She adjusted the transceiver and waited for a clear signal, watching Phia out of the corner of one eye.

Her fellow apprentice perched cross-legged upon one of the spare bunks, releasing her glossy hair from its tidy knot. "Your master is very…. odd," she observed, curiously.

Ahsoka despaired of the equipment. Lightning arced overhead, thunder hard on its heels. The pre-fab building quaked all about them. "He's …unique," she agreed with a small smile.

Phia tilted her head to one side. "It's strange to think that Master Kenobi taught him. They are so unlike."

Ahsoka quirked a tiny smile at that misconception, and flounced onto the opposite cot, pulling her feet under her body. "Oh, I don't know. You might think that until the 'sabers come out – you should see them _fight _together," she breathed, with reverence. "You have to look past the surface. With both of them."

The other young woman nodded sagely. "You know Master Kenobi well."

Shrug. "Well. We're assigned together a lot."

"They say you were almost apprenticed to him... what happened?"

Ahsoka laughed. "That was a big mis-communication. I think he actually _set me up _just so he could hand me over to Skyguy- I mean, um.."

"Skyguy," Phia repeated, eyes round.

"It's a long story," the Togruta hurried onward. "Sometimes I feel like I have two masters – it's hard to explain. I guess because sometimes it feels like _my _master still might be a padawan if the war hadn't started. Maybe…" –she shook her head helplessly, at a loss for words- "It's like a family. Outside the Temple, I mean. Where things are messier. But I guess in the Healers' ranks it's different anyway."

Her new friend nodded gravely. "Yes, it's different with us. I wonder why Master Kenobi hasn't taken another padawan, though? Even with the war…"

Ahsoka had wondered herself. There had been that little grubby waif on Lanteeb – the girl introduced to her as Greti: a Force sensitive, utterly undomesticated and filthy head to toe, not what you would predict for Master Kenobi at all… not that _Skyguy_ fit that bill either, come to think of it…but that little urchin had been _something _ to the Jedi master. Ahsoka had clearly sensed his regrets when they had left. Not that she would ever mention it. "I don't know," she decided. Because she didn't, not really. He had said something to her once, right after Master Damsin's death, in those few days when he had been… well, when they had _talked _ about things. And practiced Jar'Kai. And he had said that he was not so sure he had done Anakin's immense talent any justice with his teachings, or something typically modest like that.

But that had been _personal. _Ahsoka wouldn't repeat it.

Phiatalleika Esoro pensively twisted a lock of her hair around three fingers. "It's a pity," she stated, emphatically, "Even Master Che thinks so. She said luminaries should kindle as many new lights as possible… she thinks he's shirking duty, as well as doing everything in his power to rejoin the Force at a precociously early age."

They were _all_ striving to attain that goal, so long as the war lasted. Countless Jedi had already reached the mysterious shores of infinity well before their time. Ahsoka herself had brushed against death more times than she could count. "We just need to end the fighting," she asserted. "And then the other things will fall back into place. When you're on the front – it's like there's no other reality, nothing but the moment. And afterward, you're too tired to really think about doing anything else." She had seen the weariness in Master Kenobi, especially lately. She had even seen an echo of it in Skyguy- only his exhaustion seemed to be a thing volatile in its own right, a dangerous fossil fuel that could propel him through unthinkable feats, through the hells themselves, as though he harbored secret reserves of strength, of forbidden power.

Another thought to put aside for later. She opened her mouth to make some lighter reply, some jesting answer, when an earsplitting clap of thunder erupted directly overhead.

The power generator for the training outpost overloaded, sealing them in abrupt and smothering darkness. A minute passed, and another minute. Why wasn't the secondary generator kicking in? This was a Republic military base, for stars' sake; surely they had multiple emergency back-up systems. And then she felt it: the slippery hand of danger, of malicious intent, stroking frigidly down her spine.

She sprang to her feet, hands curling about her twin 'saber hilts. Phia pressed close against her, urgency galvanizing them both to action. Ahsoka flung open the unresponsive door panel with the Force, and they dashed down the short corridor and out the main entrance in unison, biting hail and blinding light erupting all about them.

"Master!" Ahsoka hollered above the pandemonium, hurling herself full-tilt into the disastrous scene upon the wide docking pad beyond.


	24. Chapter 24

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 24**

It was the first battle Phiatalleika had ever seen – and so far as she could tell, it was a contest of nature against sentients. In the choking gloom, ice pellets bombarded her face and head, rattled off walls and roofs, rolled dangerously underfoot. Lightning rent the blackness into blinding sheets of light, blotting out all but its own destructive glory. The wind howled deafeningly and cold sleet poured down, spattering over her robe and worming its way down her back, weighting her hair with frigid ice. Danger gathered in heaps and piles, mounting higher and higher until she was sure they would all suffocate in it.

"Shield yourself!" Ahsoka Tano screamed in her ear.

Phia flung up both hands, like a stunned youngling, and called upon the tumultuous Force, barricading herself behind its invisible power. Some of the bombarding grit bounced away; the wind curved round her like river-currents about a small boulder. The storm's song was hypnotic, overwhelming. Blue blades flashed in the distance, and soon Ahsoka had outstripped her companion's faltering steps, her own 'sabers springing to life and hurrying toward the fray.

"What's happening?" the young healer cried out, but her words were whipped away in the dark gale.

A moment later, a dark shape flew toward her, streaking directly at her head. She leapt, on sheer instinct, sideways and down, before thought could register what this murderous form might be. A terrible crash as the object slammed into the barracks behind her and reduced the wall to smithereens, knocking the roof askew. She rolled, sensing further danger, blinded by abrupt radiance as lightning erupted overhead. Falling debris, or –or something – coming at her - ! She leapt again, and landed badly, losing footing on the slick tarmac, and slid helplessly across the frozen landing platform like a child's toboggan.

As she hurtled toward the place where four brilliant sabers flashed and spun, another dark, inert shape lunged through the night sky, swinging within centimeters of her body, sweeping by with a sickening rush of speed and power. A grinding and shrieking noise: torn metal, shorting electrical circuits. The air about her was alight with magnetic discharge and the peril-fraught Force. What was happening? What-?

She had just struggled back to her feet, wincing as her ankle wobbled beneath her own weight, when she was thrust down again from behind. This time it was a hard-soft bundle of sopping cloth and warm, living muscle that flattened her to the ground. The Force tautened into an unbearable pressure all about; something else soared overhead, seemed to _turn _out of its path just above them and fly onward; a moment later, an explosion rocked the rigid duracrete beneath her.

"Stay down," Master Kenobi's voice rasped in her ear, and his weight lifted off her.

She squinted through driving rain at the burning storage warehouse. Bright blue lines of light flashed and spun, their low thrumming song blending with the crackle and roar of fire, the pittering cadence of hail. The 'sabers flitted here, there, slashed and flew impossibly high. There were more crashes and shouting.

Boots echoed upon the ground. Young cadets poured into the chaotic landing area, and soon hundreds of identical voices had joined the pandemonium, barking orders and shouting responses. Feet tramped in every direction. Ahsoka Tano appeared without warning and levered her upright.

"Are you all right?"

Phia gasped for breath, soaked through to the bone and shaking. "Is anyone hurt? Are there injuries?" Duty came first.

"No – we got everyone out and stopped the…. mess," the lithe Togruta answered, a bit breathlessly. They stood and stared at the conflagration, watched the flamm retardant spray pouring onto the wrecked building in long fantails. "Come on, over here."

Phia allowed her agemate to hustle her toward a small overhang beneath the maintenance hangar entrance. All she could see through the miasma of smoke and rain were two bright sapphire blades, humming with deadly placidity, angled down and away from the body. As the two padawans approached, the weapons sizzled back into their hilts. The flickering shadows cast by the burning building danced over several senior clone officers and two bedraggled Jedi – but even without that beacon light she could feel Master Skywalker and Master Kenobi's hard-edged, blinding bright Force signatures. They shone like twin stars, the heat of battle still radiating off their bodies in a palpable aura.

She must have faltered, for the older of the men took a solicitous step forward. "Phia. Are you all right?"

"Yes," she panted, pressing close. It seemed natural, and Ahsoka was tucked in beside her own mentor. Cold ice and drifting ash settled on the pavement outside their scant shelter. Floodlights suddenly illumined the scene.

"Ah," a full-grown clone on her left grunted. "Damned emergency system decides to kick in a half-hour too late."

"Welcome to the war, Commander Kell," Anakin Skywalker quipped, bitterness in his voice.

Snow began to fall, bleeding into slush as it hit the trampled mess upon the pad. In the battery-light's stark beam, the central yard was revealed as a grisly battlefield. Cranes and lifting equipment lay mangled and twisted; supply boxes recently disgorged form the freighter had been thrown and split open, contents mixed in the snow. Two ships sprawled across the landing strip, torn apart as though by some giant hand. Unidentifiable scraps of metal sheeting and heavy girders jutted grotesquely among the wreckage, ribs of some mangled beast. On the edges of a few, glowing red fuse marks still smoldered- the trademark scar of a lightsaber blade.

"What happened?" Phia breathed again, sensing the similar awe of hundreds of cadets, all of them beholding the ruins of their camp with equally astonished brown eyes.

Commander Kell, expression unreadable and Force presence muted by conditioning, surveyed the scene with stoic detachment. "Vaping magnetic cranes went haywire after the power surge," he muttered. "I've never seen anything like it, Generals. Coulda thrown those ships right through the other barracks." A pause. "Glad you Jedi were here or casualties would be high."

Master Kenobi looked grim. "We did as much damage as the malfunctioning equipment; don't thank us yet. I'm afraid our problems are far from over."


	25. Chapter 25

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 25**

Commander Kell dismissed the brigade to their new temporary quarters when the fire had been doused. The storage warehouse had been packed with new fuel cells and other volatile compounds; there was nothing left, even after the application of the most advanced flamm retardant available. And that meant the entire medical supply shipment was a loss. He would have to report that up the ranks, and he felt some relief that his officer's rank was not _too _high in the chain of command.

He and his brothers were warriors, every one of them, not bureaucrats. The Republic could sort out the mess, so far as he cared – but he had harbored a secret hope that the shipment had contained some miraculous cure for the malady afflicting the latest batches of cadets.

Speaking of whom…

"Dismissed. Report to Barrack 6 and I want you all on schedule at 600 hours. A crisis does not merit any change in discipline."

"Sir yessir," his younger counterparts chorused, wearily hustling away to snatch three hours' rest before they returned to their rigorous training schedule at dawn. After all, this night's disaster was an excellent exercise for them. He would emphasize that in the morning's pep talk. And he might order the mess crew to serve some caff with breakfast, just to be on the safe side. There was discipline, but then there was morale too.

And he understood his brothers very, _very_ well.

The Jedi, on the other hand – they were an odd bunch. He sloughed through the piles of debris – the night shifts were already sorting through what could be salvaged of the wreckage and the fire, as ordered by General Kenobi – and made a beeline for the control center inside the maintenance hangar. Skywalker and the Togruta Jedi were both there, knee deep in wires and circuit boards. The young General had got it into his head to disassemble and examine every inch of the automated equipment cybernetic interface, and apparently when Skywalker wanted a thing done, he got it done. That instant. With his own hands, if necessary.

The clone officer stood a respectful distance away, observing a whole different kind of discipline in the ranks.

"Okay, now the electrosynaptic override cable," the young Jedi General was saying. He was steaming, clouds of evaporating moisture rising off his clothing in the warm environs of the bays. A sodden heap of black cloth adorned the decks where he had tossed aside his heavy cloak. The Togruta didn't worry so much about uniform – in fact, she hardly wore any at all. Convenient, that, and Kell didn't mind the view… but he preferred armor when it came to personal attire.

"I just gave it to you, Master."

Skywalker shoved himself halfway into the open sub-console hatch, putzing about under the control board. "No, Ahsoka – that was the master override. The other one."

"They all look the same to me."

"Then you aren't paying close enough attention, Padawan." This reprimand issued from the echoing depths of the access hatch. Skywalker's rear extremity protruded from this dark opening, the spilled guts of the computer system arrayed about his feet.

The Togruta's montrals swung sassily over her shoulders as she plucked a thin wire from among the tangled components and proffered it to her mentor's back. It levitated out of her grip and over his broad shoulders, disappearing into the control system's bowels.

After a few moments Skywalker shimmied back out, flexing the fingers of one gloved hand. "Ow. Shorted my mechno out again."

Ahsoka Tano – Kell's equal in rank, by the contorted logic of the Army – rolled her enormous eyes. "Maybe you aren't paying close enough attention, Master."

The tousle headed Jedi glowered at his subordinate. "You better _hope_ I wasn't paying attention, _Snips."_

Kell chose this moment to clear his throat. "General Skywalker, sir."

The Jedi instantly turned halfway to face him, their private frisson forgotten or shoved aside. "Commander. Status report."

Skywalker wasn't here to assume command – but he was the kind of man that simply…. _was in_ command, no matter the circumstance. Kell didn't bother to feel resentment. After all, he was to the manner born and bred. "Fire containment at one hundred percent. Damage report on cargo – we've lost the entire shipment. My men are making inventory of items destroyed. Two lifting cranes, the droid palette shifter, and three standard shuttle craft totaled, two troop transport units to be repaired, four barracks structures and one storage shed non-usable, significant damage to the power grid infrastructure. We'll require an extra demolition crew and a refuse trawler, as well as new vehicles."

"Casualties?"

"None, sir. A few minor injuries, in med bay now."

This seemed to be a relief. Skywalker's rigid posture loosened a trifle. "Good. And this was an act of sabotage."

Kell stiffened, as though the Jedi's tension had merely transferred from one body to the next. "Initial readouts indicated a power surge through a malfunctional lightning rod."

The Togruta shook her head. "That's what it was supposed to look like."

"Besides," Skywalker continued, still flexing the fingers of that one hand – it struck Kell suddenly that the thing was a _prosthetic- _ "Power surges don't usually send equipment haywire like that. That stuff was preprogrammed and then left on standby. When the power surge cam through, it was just setting off a chain reaction. Like springing a booby trap. Somebody set this up very carefully."

The clone soldier reeled. "There's nobody here but us. The cadets and the officers. And the Kaminoans, sir. With respect –"

"It's happened before," Skywalker growled. "You've got a rogue on your hands, Kell."

The Commander didn't like the sound of that. Jango Fett's progeny- his army, his clan – were one living body. Treason was like cancer, a threat to all of them, a thing unthinkable. "I'll report –"

But the Jedi fixed him with a singularly burning look. "You don't want to report this, Kell. Let me investigate first."

It was a hard call. Protocol demanded that an officer report all such suspicions of seditious activity without delay, to his immediately ranking superior … but protocol also dictated that he obey his assigned Jedi General without question. Skywalker wasn't _his _General, however –

"Kell." The voice seemed to boom and rumble like thunder, deep in his mind's viscera. "We're going to do this my way."

And all of a sudden, that seemed like the obvious thing. The only thing. The right thing. "Sir, yessir," Kell capitulated, saluting smartly.


	26. Chapter 26

**Armistice**

* * *

**Scene 26**

"See what you can do to assist – thankfully, injuries were minimal," Obi-Wan murmured, leaving Phiatalleika Esoro outside the vast medical bungalow where Loop and his brethren had been housed earlier that afternoon. Glancing through the partially opened doors, he could see that there were already an ominous number of empty palettes.

The young healer nodded, and tugged her damp hair into a tight knot. She did not immediately comply with his order, but hesitated upon the threshold long enough to give him a severe once-over reminiscent of Vokara Che in full battle array. "You _will _dry off and find a heat unit?" she inquired, sternly.

His eyebrows rose. Even Anakin at his most insufferably overprotective had never _cosseted_ him so much. "I don't think I'm quite such a delicate convalescent as all that." His mouth twitched, as he watched her obstreperous expression melt into intimidation. "But I'll do something about the mess." He ran a hand through snow-laden hair, slicking it back off his face.

Phia bowed, blushing at her own temerity, and scuttled away into the medbay. He turned then to stride across the courtyard, wrapped in silence and darkness, surrounded by the thrumming of the complex's emergency power generator. The rearguard of the northern storm front lashed against the transparisteel windows of the bland structures, leaving endless weeping tear trails along their surfaces. He raised his hood, though there was little point in the gesture. Tiny pellets of hail – the last weary rounds of ammunition fired at them from heaven's ramparts – pinged against roofs, danced in sprightly patterns at his trudging feet. Having been raised on Coruscant, with its artificially enhanced and controlled meteorological patterns, he had always enjoyed the spectacle of real weather as a young padawan. Even now, despite a few harrowing experiences that had taught him better, a part of him enjoyed this storm. It was not like the orderly, docile rains which the orbital mirrors and moisture deflectors on the city-planet permitted in due season. This was what Qui-Gon had always called a wild thing, full of pride and fury and a kind of untamed beauty.

It is like the Force itself, Obi-Wan: to be respected, listened to. Not manipulated and used. We are in harmony with such power, its servants and vessels, not its lords and masters.

Like the Force, like sentient Life, the foremost manifestation of that supernal energy. A thing to be _respected, _ not bought and sold and manipulated to suit the demands of politicians.

_This clone army will be our undoing. _ Sometimes now, he still wished his former mentor were alive, to hear his confessions of unease and absolve him of anxiety.

Focus in the present moment, where it belongs.

He drew his moisture laden cloak tight about his body and made for the entrance to the intact half of the officers' barracks. Pausing at the open doorframe, he reached out through the Force, much as the beam of light spilling from within fell across the landing pad and its frozen pools of water, the strewn remains of near-disaster. And there it was – a little flicker of danger, a tiny serpent-tail rattling somewhere nearby: sentient malice, aloof but observant. He focused upon it narrowly, but it melted away before he could pinpoint it, seeming to dissipate into anonymity, into an endlessly repeated pattern.

What he needed was a long meditation. Well, a dry cloak and a long-

He broke off his train of thought abruptly, sensing the Kaminoan's presence before he rounded the corner of the sterile passageway. Nirra Vah's head swayed slightly atop his elongated neck, his pale fingers interlaced across the front of his silvery clinician's garment. "Master Jedi."

A short bow. "Director."

"We apologize for the inconvenience this power rupture has caused… our facilities are generally maintained in perfect order."

"As I am well aware." After all, he had been the first Jedi – after the spurious "Sifo Dyas" who had commissioned the army all those years ago – to set foot on Kamino, a world which officially did not exist even in the Archive records. He had been the first to lay eyes on the cloning center, the neat tiers of bottled embryos and the conditioning school where the clones were trained up to be incomparable soldiery. He had been impressed then, in a cold and nauseating way. He was still impressed. "This was an act of sabotage."

Vah waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. There is nobody present but myself, my staff, and the units. And I assure you, a psychological abnormality on the scale you suggest is impossible. Our screening methods are impeccable and we dispose of defective product without delay."

"I see." In other words, a rogue was impossible. Which was untrue – it had happened before, on the front. The pressures of war were immense, incalculable, and the human psyche perhaps beyond the reach even of the most exacting scientific calculations. But he did not say these things aloud.

The Kaminoan's limpid, bulging eyes blinked slowly. "If you will forgive my saying so, our conditioning methods are superior even to those you Jedi employ upon your own younglings. As I understand it, you have in recent decades experienced an alarming rate of anomalous outcomes."

"Apostasy to the Dark is not a matter of –"

"Especially among your Service Corps," the director added, delicately. "The specialists who visited Kamino last month were nonconformist in their principles and beliefs. The Jedi Order would do well to reconsider its training methods."

Was that a hint or a threat? Obi-Wan inclined his head, studiedly neutral. "Your people are an illumining paragon in that regard."

"Yes." The fish-like eyes rotated in their sockets a few degrees, seeking a better angle from which to study his face. "I wonder if the trouble did not originate with that research team, if you will forgive the bold suggestion."

"Every possibility must be examined."

They bowed again, the faintest breath of contempt wafting in the Force despite the mutually flawless etiquette. The Kaminoan turned and flowed down the corridor, placid as ever. Obi-Wan waved open the door to their cramped temporary quarters and turned the odd conversation over in his mind, grimacing a little at the puddle he had left upon the threshold.

Heat unit. Yes. And then a long, long meditation.

The door slid closed behind him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Armistice**

* * *

**Chapter 27**

Phia slogged back across the slush-coated tarmac to the safety of the prefab bungalow serving as temporary headquarters, her feet dragging with unwonted weariness. The night was cold, and her every limb aching in the aftermath of an extended healing session. It was true that the near disaster caused by the malfunctioning equipment had left few serious injuries in its wake, but her brief tenure on the medbay floor had provided ample opportunity to see to the hurts of a _new _batch of ailing cadets. The early onset of their peculiar malady had a predictable symptomatic pattern, but it was nothing she could counter. Her efforts to stem the tide of disease proved fruitless, as though she fought against the natural order of things, against the ordained patterns of ebb and flow within the Living Force itself.

She had never before encountered a disease so… compatible with the host organism. It was as though no foreign microbe or innate imbalance existed at all. And yet it was also as though a dark pall had been cast over the victims, a hand poised to snuff out their vital flames without remorse.

She trudged into the officers' common room and tossed her heavy, rain spattered cloak over a chair. Through the open doorway, she could see that Master Kenobi had settled into a deep meditation; the thought of disturbing him was an unspeakable audacity. Morosely, she checked the commsatt panel again and was delighted to find a ready signal. Master Skywalker was a genius if he had restored the overloaded circuits so quickly.

She did not bother to compare temporal revolutions for Coruscant's prime meridian with the local standard time, and so managed to roust Vokara Che from sleep with an alpha priority transmission.

"Phiatalleika," the Temple's senior healer rasped, drawing herself up to her full height and glaring at the holo-cam. Her elegant hands folded a cloak about dusky blue shoulders. "Have you need of counsel, child?"

It was an acute comfort and relief to hear the elderly Twi'Lek's husky tones again. "Yes, Master… there is something very strange about this illness. I've examined a dozen of the young men affected. I have never felt anything like it before."

Vokara Che smiled, a rare bestowal of genuine warmth. "Describe to me what weighs upon your mind."

Relieved, hopeful, Phia poured out the results of her investigation so far, while the senior healer listened with great patience.

"It has something to do with growth acceleration," the Twi'Lek Jedi mused. "Though such meddling has no repercussions in the immune system. The clones are generated from a basic genetic template and then subjected to external accelerative agents. There has been no occasion to observe the end result, but I would expect phenomena such as you describe in the geriatric phase – meaning that once their bodies reach a natural old age, they will degenerate with alarming rapidity, declining toward death at a breakneck speed. After all, their cells are programmed to construct and deconstruct quickly – but none of the affected troops are near that age yet. I am more alarmed by this talk of the _dark side."_

"Master Kenobi agreed with me," Phia asserted. "There is something very _wrong_ here. There is something inside these men – something growing and consuming them, far faster than is natural. The rhythm is all wrong, especially for a human; it's like watching the sun set on Timion – every three hours. It's dizzying."

She paused, vertiginous form the very memory, and struggled to find words. "Master, it's as though they were… well, open to the Force, but unable to _stop _it. Burned out like candles, almost. Like Force exhaustion."

"Ah." There had been deaths on the front – Jedi healers _consumed_ by channeling the life force too intensely, the reserves of their own vitality expended in a frenetic blaze, poured out that others might live.

"Is that possible?" Phia wondered aloud. Could a non-Sensitive experience such premature burn-out?

"I do not know. But I shall conduct what research I am able and report back to you," the senior healer promised. "What you suggest is a matter of great obscurity and malignance. There are few who might have the knowledge to induce to such a condition… or the power."

Phia shuddered as a cold hand stroked down her spine. The word _Sith _had been bandied about the padawan dormitories and refectories as a commonplace, ever since the war began – yet she had never imagined brushing so close against the reality it implied. "Thank you, Master. I'll tell Master Kenobi. We both appreciate your guidance."

Vokara Che snorted. "The one who needs it less values it more," she remarked, trenchantly. "Please remind _Master Kenobi _ that my previous injunctions have not ceased to apply simply because he has left the Temple precinct."

Phia blinked. "Yes, I shall convey your message."

"Good." The elderly healer looked stern. "And see that he sleeps on occasion. We shall speak again soon, I hope. May the Force be with you."

The conference ended in a snap of holographic blue. Phia pulled absently at her hair knot, then yanked it free in an upsurge of frustration. The thing _never_ stayed put. Pondering the complexities of this present mystery, she determinedly wove her long mane into a clumsy braid and fastened its tufted end. Perhaps it _was_ more practical.

"Practical except in combat situations," a gentle voice corrected her unspoken thought. "Wherein it can be seized by one's opponent in hand-to-hand."

Phia swiveled. "Oh! I hope I did not disturb you, Master."

He cocked a brow at her. "No, no… I'm conditioned to respond to Master Che's dulcet tones with a flight-or-fight response."

It was difficult not to giggle, but Phia kept a straight face. "I am to convey her regards and –"

"I heard our revered healer's injunction," Master Kenobi cut her off, holding up one hand. "You may report to her that I am wearing my mittens"- he was in fact stripped down to trousers and undertunic – "sleeping like a baby," – none of them had yet enjoyed much repose in the course of the hectic mission – "and am dutifully consuming my torffli."

"Food," Phia groaned. "I don't suppose they will think to feed us? The Kaminoans do not seem particularly hospitable."

"Oh, I shouldn't worry. Anakin is bound to be on his way, and I'm sure he will have attended to all the details."

It was a happy thought. "Well, then…. " She might as well extend the offer while they were on such friendly terms. Temple culture dictated the strictest observance of personal boundaries – but she was a dedicated healer, and Vokara Che has certain expectations. "Will you let me help you now? The headache, I mean."

He looked startled, and then wry. "There's no need. Once banished, it's sure to return swiftly." A beat, in which the Force swelled with the unmistakable approach of Master Skywalker. A moment later, the young Knight burst through the door, a thunderhead riding the cold edge of its own stormfront. "You see? Speak of the devil…."

Master Kenobi directed a singularly bland look at the newcomer, the butt of the joke favored his friend with an exasperated half-smile, and Phia smothered her incipient laughter behind both raised hands.


End file.
